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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?
Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of
These are denied me-dreamt of still in vain.
Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain
Are ever but as some wild fitful song,
Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.

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!
That in his bosom wins not for my name
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still;
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams.
Never! oh, never more! Where'er I move,

The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled! But I go
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words-" in vain,"

Sear'd on the heart-I go. Twill soon be past!
Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven,
And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast
Unvalued wealth-who know'st not what was given
In that devotedness-the sad, and deep,
And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep
Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast,
Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!
But that were happiness!—and unto me
Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be
So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky,
Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;
With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept even as part of our sweet air along-
To listen silently; with thee to gaze
On forms, the deified of olden days--

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
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!-The fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name-
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd-awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell--
Say proudly yet-"Twas hers who loved me well!"

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.]

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We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek-
Love, Love of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear :-
Perchance that dark hour brought repose
To happy bosoms near;

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low

Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd

As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit pass'd!
While even as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not.

IMELDA.

"Sometimes

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,

And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda! "I
ITALY; a Poem.

"Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma."-TASSO.

WE have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,
Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath

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
One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring,
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,
With the blue heaven of Italy above,
And citron-odours dying on the air,

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
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;
And if they wept, they wept far other tears.
Than the cold world brings forth. They stood,
that hour,

Speaking of hope; while tree, and fount, and flower,
And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs,
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows.

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
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd,
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took
One moment with its fearfulness, and shook
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast
Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more,
She still'd her heart to listen-all was o'er;
Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by.

That night Imelda's voice was in the song-
Lovely it floated through the festive throng
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies-
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze,
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue
With something of dim fear; and in that glance
Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest,

Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,

Where Thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime
Alike and when the banquet's hall was left
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft;
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane,
And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again
There stole a footstep, fleet, and light, and lone,
Through the dim cedar shade—the step of one
That started at a leaf, of one that fled,

Of one that panted with some secret dread.
What did Imelda there? She sought the scene
Where love so late with youth and hope had been.
Bodings were on her soul; a shuddering thrill
Ran through each vein, when first the Naiad's rill
Met her with melody-sweet sounds and low:
We hear them yet, they live along its flow--
Her voice is music lost! The fountain-side
She gain'd-the wave flash'd forth-'twas darkly
dyed

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?"
But then her low tones falter'd:-"On thy breast
Is the stain-yes, 'tis blood! And that cold cheek-
That moveless lip!-thou dost not slumber 2—
speak,

Speak, Azzo, my beloved! No sound-no breath-
What hath come thus between our spirits? Death!
Death?-I but dream-I dream!" And there she

stood,

A faint fair trembler, gazing first on blood,
With her fair arm around yon cypress thrown,
Her form sustain'd by that dark stem alone,
And fading fast, like spell-struck maid of old,
Into white waves dissolving, clear and cold;
When from the grass her dimm'd eye caught a
gleam-

'Twas where a sword lay shiver'd by the stream—
Her brother's sword!-she knew it; and she knew
"Twas with a venom'd point that weapon slew!
Woe for young love! But love is strong. There came
Strength upon woman's fragile heart and frame:
There came swift courage! On the dewy ground
She knelt, with all her dark hair floating round
Like a long silken stole; she knelt, and press'd
Her lips of glowing life to Azzo's breast,
Drawing the poison forth. A strange, sad sight!
Pale death, and fearless love, and solemn night!
-So the moon saw them last.

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,
Deck'd as for bridal hours!-long braids of pearl
Amidst her shadowy locks were faintly shining,

As tears might shine, with melancholy light;
And there was gold her slender waist entwining;
And her pale graceful arms-how sadly bright;
And fiery gems upon her breast were lying,
And round her marble brow red roses dying.
But she died first!-the violet's hue had spread
O'er her sweet eyelids with repose oppress'd;
She had bow'd heavily her gentle head,

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

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[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
For her whose home of other days had been
Midst the fair halls of England! But the love
Which fill'd her soul was strong to cast out fear;
And by its might upborne all else above,

She shrank not-mark'd not that the dead were

near.

Of him alone she thought, whose languid head
Faintly upon her wedded bosom fell;
Memory of aught but him on earth was fled,
While heavily she felt his life-blood well
Fast o'er her garments forth, and vainly bound
With her torn robe and hair the streaming wound---
Yet hoped, still hoped! Oh! from such hope how
long

Affection woos the whispers that deceive,
Even when the pressure of dismay grows strong!

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!
One shriek the forests heard-and mute she lay
And cold, yet clasping still the precious clay
To her scarce-heaving breast. O Love and Death!
Ye have sad meetings on this changeful earth.
Many and sad!--but airs of heavenly breath
Shall melt the links which bind you, for your birth
Is far apart.

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
Her arms, as 'twere for something lost or fled,
Then faintly sank again. The forest-bough,
With all its whispers, waved not o'er her now.
Where was she? Midst the people of the wild,
By the red hunter's fire: an aged chief,
Whose home look'd sad-for therein play'd no

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 sweet mournfulness of many a hymn,
Sung when the woods at eve grew hush'd and dim-
By the persuasion of her fervent eye,
All eloquent with childlike piety-

By the still beauty of her life she strove
To win for heaven, and heaven-born truth, the love
Pour'd out on her so freely. Nor in vain
Was that soft-breathing influence to enchain
The soul in gentle bonds; by slow degrees
Light follow'd on, as when a summer breeze
Parts the deep masses of the forest shade, [made
And lets the sunbeam through. Her voice was
Even such a breeze; and she, a lowly guide,
By faith and sorrow raised and purified,
So to the Cross her Indian fosterers led,
Until their prayers were one. When morning spread
O'er the blue lake, and when the sunset's glow
Touch'd into golden bronze the cypress bough,
And when the quiet of the Sabbath-time
Sank on her heart, though no melodious chime
Waken'd the wilderness, their prayers were one.
Now might she pass in hope-her work was done!
And she was passing from the woods away-
The broken flower of England might not stay
Amidst those alien shades. Her eye was bright
Even yet with something of a starry light,
But her form wasted, and her fair young cheek
Wore oft and patiently a fatal streak,

A rose whose root was death. The parting sigh
Of autumn through the forests had gone by,
And the rich maple o'er her wanderings lone
Its crimson leaves in many a shower had strown,
Flushing the air; and winter's blast had been
Amidst the pines; and now a softer green [come,
Fringed their dark boughs: for spring again had
The sunny spring! but Edith to her home
Was journeying fast. Alas! we think it sad
To part with life when all the earth looks glad
In her young lovely things-when voices break
Into sweet sounds, and leaves and blossoms wake:
Is it not brighter, then, in that far clime
Where graves are not, nor blights of changeful time,
If here such glory dwell with passing blooms,
Such golden sunshine rest around the tombs?
So thought the dying one. 'Twas early day,
And sounds and odours, with the breezes' play
Whispering of spring-time, through the cabin door,
Unto her couch life's farewell sweetness bore.
Then with a look where all her hope awoke,
"My father!"-to the gray-hair'd chief she spoke-
"Know'st thou that I depart?" "I know, I know,"
He answer'd mournfully, "that thou must go

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