And he, who battled to restore
The glories and the rights of yore,
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound,
Could burst the dead repose around,
Again his native Rome shall see,
The sceptred city of the free!
And young Stephania waits the hour
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower,
Her ardent heart with joy elate,
That seems beyond the reach of fate;
Her mien, like creature from above,
All vivified with hope and love.

Fair is her form, and in her eye
Lives all the soul of Italy!

A meaning lofty and inspired,
As by her native day-star fired:
Such wild and high expression, fraught
With glances of impassion'd thought,
As fancy sheds its vision bright
O'er priestess of the God of Light!
And the dark locks that lend her face
A youthful and luxuriant grace,

Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes
Seem from the fire within to rise;

But deepen'd by the burning heaven
To her own land of sunbeams given.
Italian art that fervid glow

Would o'er ideal beauty throw,

And with such ardent life express

Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness;
Dreams which, surviving Empire's fall,
The shade of glory still recall.

But see,

the banner of the brave

O'er Hadrian's tomb hath ceas'd to wave. 'Tis lower'd- and now Stephania's eye Can well the martial train descry,

Who, issuing from that ancient dome,
Pour through the crowded streets of Rome.
Now from her watch-tower on the height,
With step as fabled wood-nymph's light,
She flies-and swift her way pursues
Through the lone convent's avenues.
Dark cypress-groves, and fields o'erspread
With records of the conquering dead,
And paths which track a glowing waste,
She traverses in breathless haste:

And by the tombs where dust is shrined,
Once tenanted by loftiest mind,

Still passing on, hath reach'd the gate
Of Rome, the proud, the desolate !
Throng'd are the streets, and, still renew'd,
Rush on the gathering multitude.

Is it their high-soul'd chief to greet,
That thus the Roman thousands meet?
With names that bid their thoughts ascend,
Crescentius, thine in song to blend;
And of triumphal days gone by
Recall th' inspiring pageantry?

There is an air of breathless dread,

An eager glance, a hurrying tread;
And now a fearful silence round,
And now a fitful murmuring sound,

'Midst the pale crowds, that almost seem

Phantoms of some tumultuous dream,

Quick is each step, and wild each mien,
Portentous of some awful scene.

Bride of Crescentius! as the throng
Bore thee with whelming force along,
How did thine anxious heart beat high,
Till rose suspense to agony!

Too brief suspense, that soon shall close,
And leave thy heart to deeper woes.

Who 'midst yon guarded precinct stands,
With fearless mien, but fetter'd hands?
The ministers of death are nigh,
Yet a calm grandeur lights his eye;
And in his glance there lives a mind,
Which was not form'd for chains to bind,
But cast in such heroic mould

As theirs, th' ascendant ones of old.
Crescentius! freedom's daring son,
Is this the guerdon thou hast won?
Oh, worthy to have lived and died
In the bright days of Latium's pride!
Thus must the beam of glory close,
O'er the seven hills again that rose,
When at thy voice to burst the yoke,
The soul of Rome indignant woke?
Vain dream! the sacred shields are gone,
Sunk is the crowning city's throne:
Th' illusions that around her cast

Their guardian spells have long been past.
Thy life hath been a shot star's ray,
Shed o'er her midnight of decay;
Thy death at Freedom's ruin'd shrine
Must rivet every chain-but thine.

Calm is his aspect, and his eye
Now fix'd upon the deep blue sky,
Now on those wrecks of ages fled,
Around in desolation spread;

Arch, temple, column, worn and grey,
Recording triumphs pass'd away;
Works of the mighty and the free,
Whose steps on earth no more shall be,
Though their bright course hath left a trace
Nor years nor sorrows can efface.

Why changes now the patriot's mien
Erewhile so loftily serene?

Thus can approaching death control

The might of that commanding soul?

No! Heard

ye

not that thrilling cry

Which told of bitterest agony ?

He heard it, and, at once subdued,
Hath sunk the hero's fortitude,

He heard it, and his heart too well

Whence rose that voice of woe can tell;
And 'midst the gazing throngs around

One well-known form his glance hath found;
One fondly loving and beloved,
In grief, in peril, faithful proved.
Yes, in the wildness of despair,

She, his devoted bride, is there.

Pale, breathless, through the crowd she flies,
The light of frenzy in her eyes:

But ere her arms can clasp the form
Which life ere long must cease to warm;

Ere on his agonizing breast

Her heart can heave, her head can rest;

Check'd in her course by ruthless hands,
Mute, motionless, at once she stands ;
With bloodless cheek and vacant glance,
Frozen and fix'd in horror's trance;
Spell-bound, as every sense were fled,
And thought o'erwhelm'd, and feeling dead.
And the light waving of her hair,
And veil, far floating on the air,
Alone, in that dread moment, show,
She is no sculptured form of woe.

The scene of grief and death is o'er, The patriot's heart shall throb no more; But hers-so vainly form'd to prove pure devotedness of love,

The

And draw from fond affection's eye
All thought sublime, all feeling high;
When consciousness again shall wake,
Hath now no refuge - but to break.
The spirit long inured to pain
May smile at fate in calm disdain ;
Survive its darkest hour, and rise
In more majestic energies.

But in the glow of vernal pride,
If each warm hope at once hath died,
Then sinks the mind, a blighted flower,
Dead to the sunbeam and the shower;
A broken gem, whose inborn light
Is scatter'd - ne'er to reunite.