of death
From thee snatched the hero's wreath.

Often will the grief-shade start
O'er thy sister's mood of joy,
Vainly will thy mother's heart
Yearn to greet her absent boy;
Never sister's lip shall press
On thine own its fond caress,--
Never more a mother's eye
Flash in pride when thou art by!

Where the orange, bending lowly
With its golden fruit, is swaying;
And the Indian maiden, slowly
By her native stream is straying;
O'er thy dreamless, calm repose,
Balmily the South wind blows,--
With the green turf on thy breast,
Rest thee, youthful warrior, rest!

A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ.

Many ages ago, near the high Hartz, there dwelt
A rude race of blood-loving giants, who felt
No joy but the fierce one which Carnage bestows,
When her foul lips are clogged with the blood of her foes.

And fiercer and bolder than all of the rest
Was Bohdo,(1) their chieftain;--'twas strange that a breast,
Which nothing like kindness or pity might move,
Should glow with the warmth and the rapture of love.

Yet he loved, and the pale mountain-monarch's fair child
Was the maid of his heart; but tho' burning and wild
Was the love that he bore her, it won no return,
And the flame that consumed him was answered with scorn.

Now the lady is gone with her steed to the plain,--
Save the falcon and hound there is none in her train;
She needs none to guide, or to guard her from harm
There's no fear in her heart, there is strength in her arm.

From her white wrist unhooded her falcon she threw,
Her bow like Diana, the huntress, she drew;
And fleet as the fetterless bird swept the sky,
So on her proud steed swept the fair lady by.

See how her eye sparkles, and how her cheek glows,
As onward so fearless and proudly she goes,
With her locks streaming back like a banner of gold,
Were she not, say, a bride meet for Nimrod(2) of old?

And he saw her--the chief, from his tower afar--
As she glanced o'er the earth like some wandering star;
And he swore she should come in that tower to dwell,
Or his soul be a prize to the spirits of hell.

His war-horse he mounted, and, swift as the shoot
Of the night-gathered meteor, he sped in pursuit,--
Breathing out, as he went, mad with love and with ha