[now Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, Leaf after leaf, to beauty-line by line, Through the pale marble's veins. It grows!-and I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine: I give my own life's history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne !-thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow Which in me dwells, as by the summer light All things are glorified. From thee my woe Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould, Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, With the soft sadness of thine earnest eyeSpeak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw Into thy frame a voice-a sweet, and low, And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh, To send the passion of its melody Through his pierced bosom-on its tones to bear My life's deep feeling, as the southern air Wafts the faint myrtle's breath-to rise, to swell, To sink away in accents of farewell, Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow Surely my parted spirit yet might know, If love be strong as death! III. Now fair thou art, Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart! Yet all the vision that within me wrought, I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought; I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, Things not of such as die! But I have been Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean, With all these deep affections that o'erflow My aching soul, and find no shore below; An eye to be my star; a voice to bring [spring? IV. Yet the world will see Little of this, my parting work! in thee. [reed Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the From storms a shelter-give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame! The shadow of this broken-hearted love Sear'd on the heart-I go. Twill soon be past! This had been joy enough; and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound, GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. [The Baron Von der Wart, accused-though it is believed unjustly-as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death.] We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won." And were not these high words to flow But oh with such a glazing eye, Thou, only thou, shouldst speak! The wind rose high-but with it rose While she sat striving with despair Beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer She wiped the death-damps from his brow Had still'd his heart so oft. She spread her mantle o'er his breast, As hope and joy ne'er knew. Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, She had her meed-one smile in death- She knelt on that sad spot, IMELDA. "Sometimes The young forgot the lessons they had learnt, And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda! "I "Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma."-TASSO. WE have the myrtle's breath around us here, 1 The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. iii. p. 443. The ivied altar! That sweet murmur tells The rich wild-flowers no tale of woe or death; Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rainOn the dim violets by its marble bed, And the pale-shining water-lily's head. Sad is that legend's truth.-A fair girl met And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring And light leaves trembling round, and early love Deep in each breast. What reck'd their souls of strife Between their fathers? Unto them young life Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower, But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled Up where the cedars make yon avenue Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught Was it the clash of swords? A swift dark thought That night Imelda's voice was in the song- Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance, Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest, Of one that panted with some secret dread. Even as from warrior-hearts; and on its edge, Amidst the fern, and flowers, and moss-tufts deep, There lay, as lull'd by stream and rustling sedge, A youth, a graceful youth. "Oh! dost thou sleep? Azzo!" she cried, "my Azzo! is this rest?" Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound-no breath- stood, A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood, 'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream— The morn came singing Through the green forests of the Apennines, With all her joyous birds their free flight winging, And steps and voices out amongst the vines. What found that dayspring here? Two fair forms laid Like sculptured sleepers; from the myrtle shade Casting a gleam of beauty o'er the wave, Still, mournful, sweet. Were such things for the grave? Could it be so indeed? That radiant girl, As tears might shine, with melancholy light; And on the youth's hush'd bosom sunk to rest. So slept they well!-the poison's work was done; Love with true heart had striven-but Death had [sate The might and burden of the solitude! Yet, in that hour, midst those green wastes, there One young and fair; and oh! how desolate! But undismay'd-while sank the crimson light, And the high cedars darken'd with the night. Alone she sate; though many lay around, They, pale and silent on the bloody ground, Were sever'd from her need and from her woe, Far as death severs life. O'er that wild spot Combat had raged, and brought the valiant low, And left them, with the history of their lot, 1 Founded on incidents related in an American work, "Sketches of Connecticut." Unto the forest oaks-a fearful scene She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were near. Of him alone she thought, whose languid head Affection woos the whispers that deceive, And we, that weep, watch, tremble, ne'er believe The blow indeed can fall. So bow'd she there Over the dying, while unconscious prayer Fill'd all her soul. Now pour'd the moonlight down, Veining the pine-stems through the foliage brown, And fire-flies, kindling up the leafy place, Cast fitful radiance o'er the warrior's face. Whereby she caught its changes. To her eye, The eye that faded look'd through gathering haze, Whence love, o'ermastering mortal agony, Lifted a long, deep, melancholy gaze, When voice was not; that fond, sad meaning pass'd She knew the fulness of her woe at last! Now light, of richer hue Than the moon sheds, came flushing mist and dew: The pines grew red with morning; fresh winds play'd; [shade, Bright-colour'd birds with splendour cross'd the Flitting on flower-like wings; glad murmurs broke From reed, and spray, and leaf-the living strings Of earth's Æolian lyre, whose music woke Into young life and joy all happy things. And she, too, woke from that long dreamless trance, The widow'd Edith: fearfully her glance Fell, as in doubt, on faces dark and strange, And dusky forms. A sudden sense of change Flash'd o'er her spirit, even ere memory swept The tide of anguish back with thoughts that slept Yet half instinctively she rose, and spread child Had borne her, in the stillness of her grief, To that lone cabin of the woods; and there, Won by a form so desolately fair, Or touch'd with thoughts from some past sorrow sprung, O'er her low couch an Indian matron hung; While in grave silence, yet with earnest eye, The ancient warrior of the waste stood by, Bending in watchfulness his proud gray head, And leaning on his bow. And life return'd Life, but with all its memories of the dead, To Edith's heart; and well the sufferer learn'd Her task of meck endurance-well she wore The chasten'd grief that humbly can adore Midst blinding tears. But unto that old pair, Even as a breath of spring's awakening air, Her presence was; or as a sweet wild tune Bringing back tender thoughts, which all too soon Depart with childhood. Sadly they had seen A daughter to the land of spirits go; And ever from that time her fading mien, And voice, like winds of summer, soft and low, Had haunted their dim years: but Edith's face Now look'd in holy sweetness from her place, And they again seem'd parents. Oh! the joy, The rich deep blessedness-though earth's alloy, Fear, that still bodes, be there-of pouring forth The heart's whole power of love, its wealth and worth Of strong affection, in one healthful flow, On something all its own! that kindly glow, Which to shut inward is consuming pain, Gives the glad soul its flowering time again, When, like the sunshine, freed. And gentle cares Th' adopted Edith meekly gave for theirs Who loved her thus. Her spirit dwelt the while With the departed, and her patient smile Spoke of farewells to earth; yet still she pray'd, E'en o'er her soldier's lowly grave, for aid One purpose to fulfil, to leave one trace Brightly recording that her dwelling-place Had been among the wilds; for well she knew The secret whisper of her bosom true, Which warn'd her hence. And now, by many a word Link'd unto moments when the heart was stirr'd- By the still beauty of her life she strove A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh |