The winds died away, and the lovely moon shone Through the bower where I plighted to make her my own;

And the fond maiden wept ere I won her consent,

The tears of affection, they flow'd and they went
Like flowers, when the dews

Of the night trickle there,
Till sunbeams diffuse

Them to perfume the air:

Now the pride of my cabin, ere summer began,
Could this heart tell its raptures, was "Fair Mary Anne!"

THE TRYSTING HOUR.

THE night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody over the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above:
Then tarry no longer my true love,

The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
When each bloom has a tear in its eye.

So stilly the evening is closing,

Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
Eolian whispers reposing,

Breathe softly, I hear my love call:
Yes! the light fairy step of my true love,

The night breeze is wafting to me;
Over heath-bell and violet blue, love,
Perfuming the shadowy lea.

SMILE OF HOPE.-PAULONA OF MOSCOW. 217

THE SMILE OF HOPE.

ROUND the fond heart plays the smile of hope,

When youth and love unite;

Like vernal breeze o'er new-blown flowers,

Which court the morning's light,

When bees hum round each cup and bell,
Meeting the raptur'd sight.

But hope can flutter round love, then die;
Even changeful April's breath

May chill and blight the fair young flower
She cradled on the heath,

Where the ranging bee in vain will try
To sip new sweets from death.

I've seen the tremor on beauty's cheeks,
Raise the lustre in her eye—

The flash wax pale—that full eye dim—
The light smile play, then die,

And ebb on the heart; till hope recall'd
It lipward on a sigh.

PAULONA OF MOSCOW.

WHEN We met at the altar,
Our nuptial vows to bind,

What joy rung through the hall,

As our willing hands were join'd;

U

And my hero bless'd the happy day,

When love's propitious star
Restor'd him to Paulona's arms,
From the red fields of war,

And bade me hope that sorrow
No more would cloud our mind.

Ah! fleeting were the hopes, that long In secret we caress'd,

Till the larum peal'd forebodings,
Thrilling wild through every breast:

To arms! the trumpet sounded,
And my warrior sigh'd adieu!
Then hasten'd with my kinsmen
For the combat, while I flew

To the isles within the Kremlin,
Where my woes were hush'd to rest.

Hath a footstep so unhallow'd

Ere profaned Saint Michael's shrine! Did a heart so steep'd in sorrows, Ever court thy aid as mine, While prostrate where thy ashes rest, O patron Saint! I clung,

Calling aloud upon thee, while the yell

Of rapine round me rung, When thy silver tomb, and jewel'd pall I kiss'd, O saint divine!

Yes, where the frowning shadows

Of our Tsars were flitting around,

PAULONA OF MOSCOW.

219

The infidel despoil'd thy fane,

And dragg'd me from the ground, Pale, shrieking to their chief,

While his protection I implored, And begg'd on bended knee,

To my lorn mother to be restored, Who mourn'd her lost Paulona, Weeping till she was found.

The dark and troubled waters
Of the Moskva girdle round
Towers, battlements, and all within
The Kremlin's hallow'd ground:
Ivan-Velikii's lofty spire,

In gold and green surveys,
Thy princely dwellings, Moscow!

Through the universal blaze,

Where the crimson moon frown'd o'er the wreck

Of ruin strew'd around.

O pity! in that trying hour
I call'd you, but ye fled;
Oblivion draw thy veil around

The friendless orphan's head;
My Warrior, Father, Mother, long
Will recall Paulona's woes:

She stretch'd her wan-worn lovely form
On the spreading waste of snows,
Then closing her dark eyes, slept

With the surrounding dead.

The foregoing Ballad was suggested upon reading the affecting story of Paulona, in Lebaume's Campaign in Russia.

"The Kremlin," says Dr. Robert Lyall in his interesting history of Russia, "if taken as a whole, with its venerable white walls, numerous battlements, variously coloured towers and steeples, present to the sight, one of the most singular, beautiful, and magnificent spectacles I ever beheld: it occupies a commanding situation on the banks of the Moskva river.

Immediately under the Cathedral of St. Michael, are the Royal Sepulchres. These are arranged in regular order under the nave, and in the trepedza of the church, defended with iron balustrades; while the tomb of St. Michael, the Patron Saint of Russia, is of beaten silver, and the pall is richly adorned with pearls and precious stones."

'Tis a dreary dell, when December's snows
Are swirling here; and the rude wind blows,
In fitful gusty yellings round:

It is dreary still, when the woods are green,
And mantled all in summer's sheen,

Where gule and rampion sprent the ground.

'Tis a lonesome dell-though the voice of love
Should whisper its vow in the deep green grove,
Where the brakes 'neath the witch-elm wave;

Nae wholesome plant is e'er seen to bloom,
Where the murder'd maiden found a tomb,

Near the bank where the Kelvin's waters lave.