Onora in sleep.

I vowed upon thy rosarie brown, this string of antique beads,

By charnel lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds

This rosarie brown which is thine own,lost soul of buried nun,

Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone ;

I vowed upon thy rosarie brown,—and, till such vow should break,

A pledge always of living days, 'twas hung around my neck

I vowed to thee on rosarie, (Dead father, look not so!)

I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my wo.

Evil Spirit.

And canst thou prove. . . .

Onora in sleep.

O love-my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain!

Was this no weal for me to feel?-is greater weal than this?

Yet when he came, I wept his nameand the angels heard but his. Evil Spirit.

Well done, well done!

Onora in sleep.

Ay me! the sun . . .

'gins to pine,

the dreamlight

Ay me! how dread can look the Dead! -Aroint thee, father mine!

She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright,

And her breath comes in sobs while she

stares through the night : There is nought. The great willow, her lattice before,

Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor;

But her hands tremble fast as their pulses, and free

From the death-clasp, close over-the

BROWN ROSARIE.

THIRD PART.

'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell

Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle;

And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride,

And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside At the work shall be doing.

And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware

From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,

Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing before,

She seeth her little son stand at the door. Is it play that he seeketh?

Is it play? when his eyes wander innocent-wild,,

And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child!

He trembles not, weeps not-the passion is done,

And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun

On his head like a glory.

'O fair-featured maids, ye are many !' he cried,

But, in fairness and vileness, who matcheth the bride?

O brave-hearted youths, ye are many, but whom,

For the courage and woe, can ye match with the groom,

As ye see them before ye?'

Out spake the bride's mother-'The vileness is thine,

If thou shame thine own sister, a bride at the shrine !'

Out spake the bride's lover-'The vileness be mine,

If he shame mine own wife at the hearth or the shrine,

And the charge be unproved.

'Bring the charge, prove the charge, brother! speak it aloud

Let thy father and hers, hear it deep in his shroud!'

O father, thou seest-for dead eyes

can see

How she wears on her bosoin a brown rosarie,

O my father beloved!'

Then outlaughed the bridegroom, and outlaughed withal

Both maidens and youths, by the old chapel wall

So she weareth no love-gift, kind brother,' quoth he,

'She may wear an she listeth, a brown rosarie,

Like a pure-hearted lady !'·

Then swept through the chapel the long bridal train:

Though he spake to the bride she replied not again:

On, as one in a dream, pale and stately

she went

Where the altar-lights burn o'er the great sacrament,

Faint with daylight, but steady.

But her brother had passed in between them and her,

And calmly knelt down on the highaltar stair

Of an infantine aspect so stern to the

view,

His lip stung her with cold: she glanced upwardly mute :

'Mine own wife,' he said, and fell stark at her foot

In the word he was saying.

They have lifted him up,-but his head sinks away,

And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine and gray.

Leave him now where he lieth-for oh,

nevermore

Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor!

Let his bride gaze upon him!

Long and still was her gaze, while they chafed him there,

And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her:

But when they stood up-only they! with a start

The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart—

She has lived, and foregone him!

And low on his body she droppeth adown

'Didst call me thine own wife, beloved -thine own?

Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm

To the world's cold without thee! Come, keep me from harm

In a calm of thy teaching!'

She looked in his face earnest long, as in sooth

There were hope of an answer,-and then kissed his mouth;

And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly,

'Now, O God, take pity-take pity on

me!

God, hear my beseeching!'

She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay;

She was 'ware of a presence that wither'd the day

Wild she sprang to her feet,' I surrender to thee

The broken vow's pledge,-the accursed rosarie,

I am ready for dying!'

She dashed it in scorn to the marblepaved ground,

Where it fell mute as snow; and a weird music-sound

She spoke with passion after pauseAnd were it wisely done,

If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?

and dim,

I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro

Of the steadfast skies above, the running brooks below;

All things are the same but I ;-only I am dreary;

And, mother, of my dreariness behold me very weary.

'Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring,

And smiled to think I should smile more

upon their gathering.

The bees will find out other flowers-
oh, pull them dearest mine,
And carry them and carry me before St.
Agnes' shrine.'

-Whereat they pulled the summer flow-
ers she planted in the spring,
And her and them all mournfully to
Agnes' shrine did bring.

have a will so strong,

And stand blind on the rocks, to choose the right path from the wrong?

To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and Heaven,-A single rose, for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times seven?

A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast,

Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!'

Then breaking into tears,-'Dear God,' she cried, and must we see All blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to THEE?

We cannot guess thee in the wood, or hear thee in the wind?

Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light behind?

Ay, sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need thee on that road; But wo being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God."

Her mother could not spe: k for tears; she ever mused thus

The bees will find out other flowers,— but what is left for us?

But her young brother stayed his sobs and knelt beside her knee, Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?'

She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek,

So tenderly, so tenderly-she needed not to speak.

The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no moreThe woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before.

Both perished mute, for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach ; O reader breathe (the ballad saith) some sweetness out of each!