Erni, young Erni! the land hath risen!

-Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison!

Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there!
-Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair?
-Hark! there's a tumult that shakes his cell,
At the gates of the mountain citadel !

Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing!
-Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing?

"There may not long be fetters,

Where the cloud is earth's array,

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep,

Like a hunter on the prey!

"There may not long be fetters,

Where the white Alps have their towers;

Unto eagle-homes, if the arrow comes,

The chain is not for ours!"

It is she! She is come like a day-spring beam,
She that so mournfully shadow'd his dream!

With her shining eyes and her buoyant form,

She is come! her tears on his cheek are warm ; And O! the thrill in that weeping voice!

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My brother, my brother! come forth, rejoice!

-Poet! the land of thy love is free,

-Sister! thy brother is won by thee!

MARGUERITE OF FRANCE. *

Thou falcon-hearted dove!

COLERIDGE.

THE Moslem spears were gleaming

Round Damietta's towers,

Though a Christian banner from her wall

Waved free its Lily-flowers.

Queen of St Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, during the captivity of the king, her husband, she there gave birth to a son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. Information being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted with the defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them summoned to her apartment, and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last extremity.

Aye, proudly did the banner wave,

As Queen of Earth and Air;

But faint hearts throbb'd beneath its folds,

In anguish and despair.

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon,

Their kingly chieftain lay,

And low on many an Eastern field

Their knighthood's best array.

'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, The wine-cup round to send,

For each that touch'd it silently,

Then miss'd a gallant friend!

And mournful was their vigil

On the beleaguer'd wall,

And dark their slumber, dark with dreams

Of slow defeat and fall.

Yet a few hearts of Chivalry

Rose high to breast the storm,

And one

of all the loftiest there

Thrill'd in a woman's form.

A woman, meekly bending

O'er the slumber of her child,

With her soft sad eyes of weeping love,
As the Virgin Mother's mild.

Oh! roughly cradled was thy Babe,

'Midst the clash of spear and lance,

And a strange, wild bower was thine, young Queen! Fair Marguerite of France!

A dark and vaulted chamber,
Like a scene for wizard-spell,

Deep in the Saracenic gloom

Of the warrior citadel;

And there 'midst arms the couch was spread,

And with banners curtain'd o'er,

For the Daughter of the Minstrel-land,

The gay Provençal shore!