against us; large blocks of floating ice, which had probably destroyed the bridge, came crashing down the tide, and it required all the skill that I could command, to steer my course among them. And then the coldthe cutting, agonizing cold-I felt my own case-hardened muscles shiver, and my teeth jar in my head with the excessive chill; yet, Heaven is my witness, I thought not of myself, unless it were with scorn, that I should flinch so much, as even to feel the elements, which that heroic girl so nobly battled with, so manfully overcame. Never, in all my long and turbulent career, never have I witnessed human intrepidity that could compare with the serene, holy fortitude with which she made her agony subservient to her will. Her clear bright eye never wavered; her cheek paled, indeed, but trembled not; she would not even permit-so perfect was the mastery of mind over matter-she would not even permit her limbs to tremble, lest they should interfere with my control over the swimming charger. After running a dozen times, as I thought, upon certain destruction, and a dozen times almost miraculously escaping,-for, encumbered by his unwonted burthen, and overdone by his previous exertion, Bayard swam not with his accustomed vigor, but floundered heavily, so that it needed all the exertions my benumbed limbs could muster, to hinder him from turning tail to the current, and floating head foremost to perdition-we reached the landing place the struggle was severe, but it was successful! We landed!we were saved! My first thought was of gratitude to my God, and my eyes glanced upwards to his holy heavens,-my second was of my love. I looked on her-but she had fainted; the peril she had endured and conquered! The revulsion of ecstacy had prevailed. A short gallop placed us at the convent gates,-my course of action had been decided, ere I reached the portal, and was followed up on the instant. Deception it was-but, if deception may ever be forgiven, surely, surely the preservation of an angel, such as she I had rescued, might palliate, might justify the offence. I bore a parchment,—a military commission from the dreaded cardinal who swayed the destinies of France. It had been darkly framed, that, in case of its falling into other hands than those for which it was intended, it might neither criminate the bearer, nor profit the gainers. Its object being to confer on me the chief command of a large body of troops, at quarters in a section of the country almost surrounded by open or secret enemies, it ran simply thus:-" On your allegiance we charge ye in all things to obey and pleasure the bearer. Signed, MAZARIN.”

What would be the final consequences of my misapplication of this powerful missive, I knew not, and recked yet less. But I did know that I had passed the disaffected districts, and that here it would meet implicit obedience—nor was I mistaken. Had I been royalty itself, I could not have been greeted with more prompt and affectionate loyalty. But this I cared not for-I had learned from the porter, that for many leagues there was not another bridge across the turbulent Marne. I was assured by the chirurgeon that Isabelle, though feeble and exhausted, was in perfect safety and had a thousand hardships borne me down, a thousand perils threatened, I should have been-as I then was-supremely happy.

THE DYING POET.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

ITs wine undrained, my cup of life is breaking,-
At every breath, her flight my spirit taking,-

Nor tears nor sorrow may delay her long.
The wings of death, on yonder passing bell,
In broken murmurs, strike the poet's knell.
Is this a time for mourning, or for song?

For song-my hand yet lingers on the wires.—
For song-even death a swanlike note inspires
To greet the confines of eternal day.—
Blest presage by my better genius given!
If soul be nought but chords attuned of heaven-
What better farewell than the immortal lay?

The harp, that's breaking, pours the richest stream--
The lamp, that's dying, starts with loftier gleam,

And shines most purely ere it sinks in night—
The swan turns heavenward his expiring eyes-
Man-man alone-looks earthward as he dies,

And counts his days, but to deplore their flight.

What is the worth of life-that we should groan?
A sun, and yet a sun,-one hour,-'tis flown-

Another comes, the image of the last !—

What one hath given, the next sweeps down the stream ;-
Labor-repose-and grief-and now a dream-

Such is the day-night comes, and all is past!—

Let him go weep, whose hands with lingering grasp,
Like ivy-wreaths, the wreck of ages clasp,-

Who in the future sees each hope decay.
For me, I hold no root in earthly soil,—
Without one pang I quit this mortal coil,-

Like flowers by breath of evening whirled away.

What is the poet-but a passing bird,

Which builds no nest on sands by ocean stirred,
Nor rests its wing where man's vain fabrics rot?
Warbling, while balanced on the ebbing tides,
Along the confines of a world he rides,

A world-which hears his voice, but knows him not. VOL. IV.

20

No mortal skill e'er taught my hand to rove
O'er trembling chords that wake the sounds I love.

Man learns not heaven's own gift of deathless power-
Nor mountain streams, their wild complaining note-
Nor eagles, on high wing self-poised to float-
Nor bees, to glean the sweet of bud and bower.

In yon aerial shrine the echoing bell

Thrills, at each stroke, in chime or mournful swell,
With varying tune for rites of mirth or wo;
And, like that sacred bell made pure by fire,
At touch of passion proud, or fond desire,
I pour my soul in rich harmonious flow.

So the wild wind-harp, through the midnight sky,
Its wailing mingled with the river's sigh,

Makes mournful music at the gale's command.
While nightly wanderers, with delighted ear,
Drink the sweet sound, and marvel whence they hear
Those spirit warblings of no mortal hand.

Oft o'er my harp did burning tear-drops roll,--
Aa dew to flowers are tear-drops to the soul,
Which ne'er grows ripe in skies without a frown.
From broken cups the wine profusely flies,
From trampled herbs the richest perfumes rise,

And scent the foot profane, that treads them down.

My spirit formed of heaven's immortal flame-
Whate'er I touched was kindled by the same.

Strange fate!—I die, with love too strongly fraught. From all I loved, but asbes now remain,

And I-like fires that waste the woodland plain-
Sink, through the ravages myself have wrought.

But Time?-is nothing!-Glory?—but a word!An empty sound from age to age transferred!

And Fame-the sport of far posterity?—

Ye votaries of her immortal shrine,

List to the tone, that thrills this lyre of mine,

It sounds-expires-the winds have swept it by.

Oh !-Leave to death one hope which shall not vanish!—
Think ye, a tone, which every breath can banish,
Shall sound for ever where a poet lies.

A dying mortal's sigh-can this be glory?
And ye, who promise centuries to my story,-
Say, shall another dawn for you arise?

Witness the gods-From youth's first promised morrow,
My lips have still pronounced, in scorn and sorrow,
That haughty name,--frail vaunt of human madness.

Much as I prove it, more its void I find,

And spurn it from me,-like the worthless rind
Of fruits in rapture plucked, cast down in sadness.

In fruitless longing for this empty dream,
Man, hurrying downward, launches to the stream
A name, that waxing feebler day by day,
Balanced awhile on those conflicting tides,
Year after year, with dubious motion rides,

Then, plunging to the abyss, is lost for aye!

I too my fame commit to shoreless seas,-
Sink it, or swim, in tempest, gale, or breeze.

What greater I?-Tis but a name at last!
Asks the proud swan, which scales the blue serene,
If still on earth's frail robe of fading green

The shadows of his soaring wing are cast 7-

Then wherefore sing?--Go ask the nightingale,
Why float her warblings on the moonbeam pale,
Blent with the moaning river's voice of wo!--
I sang--as mortals draw their breath--or die ;
As the bird warbles; as the zephyrs sigh;

As streamlets murmur wheresoe'er they flow.

To love-to pray--to sing-to me were life !——
Of all that mortals seek in paltry strife,

In this last hour I mourn for nought that's flying.
Nought but the ardent sighs that heavenward gush,
The lyric transport, or the amorous hush

Of one fond heart, still pressed to mine though dying.

At beauty's feet to sweep the thrilling lyre;
To mark the sweet responses of desire,

In the soft heavings of her bosom, swell;
To call the tear-drops from the liquid blue
Of those fond eyes, as southern winds the dew
From the full chalice of the violet's bell;

To see the melting gaze of that sweet face
Turn pensively to God's own dwelling place,

Borne heavenward by the tones that heavenward fly,

Then meekly bend upon your own their light,
Beneath their long dark lashes, pure, and bright,
As stars that quiver through the midnight sky;

To mark deep thoughts o'ershade her speaking brow, Too deep for words-and then the holy vow,

Not spoken, but sighed out with panting breath,The vow which rings through heaven's sublime alcove, The vow of angels and of men--I love ;

This-this is worth a sigh--a sigh in death!

A sigh!--A sad regret!--Weak words, and vain!-
Death's pinions buoy my soul above the plain.
I go, where instinct points each high desire--
I go, where hope's immortal splendors glow--
Where all my lute's harmonious accents flow--
Where all my wishes, all my hopes, aspire.

Faith, like the bird which sees through deepest gloom,
Faith--the soul's eye-hath pierced beyond the tomb,
Revealing fate to my prophetic mind.

Oft to the fields of everlasting day,

On wings of fire, my vagrant thoughts would stray,
And death outspeed, and leave the world behind.

Onward! right onward!--First thou shalt arrive
Where raves the wintry breath of Boreas hoar-
There tremble--lest the whirlwind's crashing sway
Hurl thee on its resistless wings away-
Tremble--lest, front to front, thou meet the roar
Of that dread blast, which none may breathe and live.