O! if I were a mountain streamlet, I know where I would flow; I’d spring into the crystal Sava, Where the gay vessels go, That I might look upon my lover— For fain my heart would know If, when he holds the helm, he ever Looks on my rose, and thinks Of her who gave it;—if the nosegay I made of sweetest pinks Is faded yet, and if he wear it. On Saturday I cull To give him for a Sabbath present All that is beautiful. UNHAPPY BRIDE. THE maiden gave the ring she wore To him who gave it her before: “O take the ring,—for thou and thine Are hated,—not by me,—but mine:— Father and mother will not hear thee, Brother and sister both forswear thee: Yet, think not, youth,—O think not ill Of her who needs must love thee still! I am a poor unhappy maid, Whose path the darkest clouds o’ershade; I sowed sweet basil, and there grew On that same spot the bitterest rue: And wormwood, that unholy flower, Is now alone my marriage dower; The only flower which they shall wear Who to the maiden’s marriage come, When for my marriage altar there The guests shall find the maiden’s tomb.” LAST PETITION. UPON her mother’s bosom lay Young Mira, and she pined away. ’T was in her own maternal shed; And thus the anxious mother said:— “What ails thee, tell me, Mira! pray?” “O ask me not, my mother dear! I feel that death approaches near; I shall not rise from this my bed; But, mother mine! when I am dead— O mother mine! call round me all My playmates to my funeral: And let the friends I loved receive The little gifts that I shall leave; Then let me sleep in peace beneath.— There’s one, my mother, I should grieve To be divided from in death. Then call around me priests divine, And pious pilgrims, mother mine! The forehead of thy dying daughter Steep in the rose’s fragrant water. And, mother, let my forehead be Dried with the rose-leaves from the tree; And pillow not thy daughter’s head, O mother! with the common dead; But let me have a quiet tomb Adjacent to my Mirjo’s home, And near my Mirjo’s nightly bed; So when he wakes his thoughts shall dwell With her he loved, and loved so well.” LOVE FOR A BROTHER. THE sun sank down behind the gold-flower’d hill; The warriors from the fight approach the shore: There stood young George’s wife, serene and still: She counted all the heroes o’er and o’er, And found not those she loved—though they were three:— Her husband, George; her marriage friend, another, Who late had led the marriage revelry; The third, her best-beloved, her only brother.