had not prevailed with her to take up other themes and other measures. The burthen of the strain was love, still love. To the complaint of monotony in this respect, she pleasantly alludes in the introduction, and then vindicates herself by renewing the offence. We gather plainly from her remarks that if she herself were in love at the time, it was only with her subject, and that she considers her self exempt from the suspicion of being broken-hearted, by continually singing about those who are. Love, however, love foredoomed, love linked to woe and fated to death—the hopelessness of hope, the reality of pain, the mockery of life—were the prevailing topics.
"How wildly round our ancient battlements
The air-notes murmur! Blent with such a wind
I heard the song which shall be ours to-night.
She had a strange sweet voice the maid who sang,
But early death was pale upon her cheek;
And she had melancholy thoughts that gave
Their sadness to her speech; she sat apart
From all her young companions, in the shade
Of an old tree—a gloomy tree, whose boughs
Hung o'er her as a pall:—'twas omen-like,
For she died young—of gradual decay,
As if the heart consumed itself. None knew
If she had loved; but always did her song
Dwell on love's sorrows."
No one who had ever caught a glimpse of the animated and joyous creature who thus sang, could have committed the error of identifying her with the love-lorn damsel she painted. The "Venetian Bracelet" is a pretty tale charmingly wrought into verse; and the "Lost Pleiad" is a little mythological tragedy told in short, sparkling, and yet mournful numbers—dark as night, "but night with all her stars." The "History of the Lyre," has many passages of force and beauty, and some
