Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above,

Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing

In this cold world! What were it then, if thou,
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang! - Farewell! and yet once more
Farewell! the passion of long years I pour
Into that word: thou hear'st not, - but the woe
And fervor of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell-
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet - Farewell!

THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.*

PART I.

'MIDST Tivoli's luxuriant glades,
Bright-foaming falls, and olive shades,
Where dwelt, in days departed long,
The sons of battle and of song,

* 66 In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the Popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which, long afterwards, continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon the fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her afflic tion and resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargana, which perhaps, a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death."-See Sismondi, History of the Italian Republics, vol. i.

No tree, no shrub its foliage rears,

But o'er the wrecks of other years,
Temples and domes, which long have been
The soil of that enchanted scene.

There the wild fig tree and the vine
O'er Hadrian's mouldering villa twine;
The cypress, in funereal grace,
Usurps the vanish'd column's place;
O'er fallen shrine, and ruin'd frieze,
The wall-flower rustles in the breeze;
Acanthus-leaves the marble hide,
They once adorn'd in sculptured pride;
And nature hath resumed her throne
O'er the vast works of ages flown.

Was it for this that many a pile,

Pride of Illissus and of Nile,
To Anio's banks the image lent
Of each imperial monument?

Now Athens weeps her scatter'd fanes,
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains;
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd
From Tiber's vale have disappear'd.
We need no prescient sibyl there,
The doom of grandeur to declare,
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time:

Each relic utters Fate's decree,

The future as the past shall be.

Halls of the dead! in Tiber's vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale?

Who trace the high patrician's dome,
The bard's retreat, the hero's home?
When moss-clad wrecks alone record,
There dwelt the world's departed lord!
In scenes where verdure's rich array
Still sheds youug beauty o'er decay,
And sunshine, on each glowing hill,
'Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.

Sunk is thy palace, but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom, Though vanish'd with the days of old Its pillars of Corinthian mould; And the fair forms by sculpture wrought, Each bodying some immortal thought, Which o'er that temple of the dead, Serene, but solemn beauty shed, Have found, like glory's self, a grave In Time's abyss or Tiber's wave: Yet dreams more lofty, and more fair, Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er, High thoughts of many a mighty mind, Expanding when all else declined, In twilight years, when only they Recall'd the radiance pass'd away,

Have made that ancient pile their home, Fortress of freedom and of Rome.

There he, who strove in evil days,
Again to kindle glory's rays,
Whose spirit sought a path light,
For those dim ages far too bright,

Crescentius long maintain'd the strife,
Which closed but with its martyr's life,
And left the imperial tomb a name,
A heritage of holier fame.

There closed De Brescia's mission high,
From thence the patriot came to die;
And thou, whose Roman soul the last,
Spoke with the voice of ages past,

Whose thoughts so long from earth hath fled,
To mingle with the glorious dead,
That 'midst the world's degenerate race,

They vainly sought a dwelling-place,
Within that house of death didst brood
O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd.
Yet worthy of a brighter lot,
Rienzi! be thy faults forgot!

For thou, when all around thee lay
Chain'd in the slumbers of decay;
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye
Had scarce a tear less for liberty;
Alone, amidst the darkness there,
Couldst gaze on Rome yet not despair!

'Tis morn, and Nature's richest dyes

Are floating o'er Italian skies;

Tints of transparent lustre shine

Along the snow-clad Apennine;

The clouds have left Soracte's height,

And yellow Tiber winds in light,

Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd

The wild Campagna's solitude.

'Tis sad amidst that scene to trace

Those relics of a vanish'd race;

Yet o'er the ravaged path of time,
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime,
Where nature still, though empires fall,

Holds her triumphant festival;

E'en desolation wears a smile,

Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while; And Heaven's own light, Earth's richest bloom, Array the ruin and the tomb.

But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour; She, whose rich flow of raven hair Streams wildly on the morning air; Heeds not how fair the scene below, Robed in Italia's brightest glow,

Though throned 'midst Latium's classic plains.
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes,

And they, the Pleiades of the earth,
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth,
Lie spread beneath: not now her glance
Roves o'er that vast, sublime expanse;
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown
On Hadrian's massy tomb alone;
There, from the storm when Freedom fled,
His faithful few Crescentius led!

While she, his anxious bride, who now
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow,

Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane,
Which then could shelter, not in vain.
But now the lofty strife is o'er,
And Liberty shall weep no more.
At length imperial Otho's voice
Bids her devoted sons rejoice;