A sound—"that earth owns not"—he hears, and starts,
And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;
Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,
A figure enters and stands by his side:
There was an air of majesty and pride
In the bold bearing of that spectre pale—
The crimson on its robe was still undried,
And dagger wounds, that tell a bloody tale
Beyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.
With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim,
On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;
The face, though that of Julius, seems to him
Formed from the moonlight of a misty sky:
The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,
And a wild sound upon the shuddering air
Creeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,
And the fast-waning lamp, as if aware
Some awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.
Stern Brutus quails not, though his wo-worn cheeks
Blanch with emotion, and in tone full loud
Thus to the ghastly apparition speaks—
"Why stand before me in that gory shroud,
Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;
Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?"
The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,
In hollow accents—"We will meet again
When the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain."
TO VIOLET.
BY JEROME A. MABY.
Years—eventful years have passed
Sweet sister! since I met thy smile;
I'm thinking now what change they've cast
Upon your form and mine the while;
Thy girlhood's days with them are flown—
A calmer light must fill thine eye;
Thy voice have now an added tone;
Thy tresses fall more dark and free.
Yet, in my dreams of thee and home,
A slight, pale girl I ever see,
Whose smiles to her mild lip do come,
Like stars in heaven—tremblingly!
For with thy young heart's lovingness
There aye seemed blent a troubled fear,
As if it knew all tenderness
Must see its worship perish here!
And oh, the prayers I poured to Heaven,
That time prove not to thee how golden links are riven!
And I—oh, sister! I am changed—
You scarce would know the dreaming boy;
For all too far his steps have ranged
Through wildering ways of Strife and Joy
Oh! falcon-eyed Ambition's schemes—
The thrill that comes on mounting wings—
Have left no love for quiet dreams,
And learned contempt for tamer things!
And Pleasure to my youthful cheek
So many a hot, wild flush has won,
That to her foils I've grown too weak—
Some nerve must still be passion-spun!
And if 'mid scenes all bravery—glow—
The night has found me proud and blest,
Stern, mournful things—that make life's wo—
Have struck sad music from my breast!
And when at times Thought leaves me calm,
And boyhood's memories float by,
Then well I know how changed I am—
And a strange weakness dims my eye!
Oh! sister, on this heart of mine
Weight—stain—have come, since last I met that smile of thine!