And, on the burden of the air, The breath of buds came faint and rare; Troop'd on the merry village-girls; The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown, With air that scarcely seem'd his own; And MELANIE, with lips apart, And clasped hands upon my arm, Flung open her impassion'd heart, And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm, And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers, And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours. In happiness and idleness We wander'd down yon sunny vale,- A laugh rings merry in mine ear! O, GOD! my sister once was here! Come with me, friend;-we rested yon; There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore; She sat upon this mossy stone! That broken fountain, running o'er With the same ring, like silver bells; She listen'd to its babbling flow, And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells Some fountain nymph's love-story now!" And, as her laugh rang clear and wild, A youth-a painter-pass'd and smiled. He gave the greeting of the morn With voice that linger'd in mine ear. I knew him sad and gentle born By those two words, so calm and clear. And he was pale and marble fair; And loved him e'er the echo died: We sat and watch'd the fount a while Of sympathy, we saunter'd on; And, in this changefulness of mood, We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood, (Whose hurrying waters, wild and white, I chanced to turn my eyes away, He said and dropp'd his earnest eyes"Forgive me! but I dream'd of thee!" His sketch, the while, was in my hand, And, for the lines I look'd to traceA torrent by a palace spann'd, Half-classic and half-fairy-land I only found-my sister's face! III. Our life was changed. Another love She who had smiled for me alone- It seem'd to me the very skies The air had breathed of balm-the flower Of radiant beauty seem'd to be But as she loved them, hour by hour, The selfishness of earth above, He sleeps who guards a brother's loveThough to a sister's present weal The deep devotion far transcends The utmost that the soul can feel For even its own higher endsThough next to Gon, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even"T is difficult to see another, A passing stranger of a day, Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away,— To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care, Who is enrich'd, he knows not why; Who suddenly hath found a treasure Golconda were too poor to buy; And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, The unconscious idol happier seem,) "T is difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast, To press the heart to earth, and hush And difficult--the eye gets dim- I thank sweet MARY Mother now, Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow To one who ask'd so much of me,— I loved the gentle painter more, And I began to watch his mood, And on my mind would sometimes press What spells the stirring heart may move-PIGMALION's statue never seem'd More changed with life, than she with love. The pearl-tint of the early dawn Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue; IV. A calm and lovely paradise Is Italy, for minds at ease. The sadness of its sunny skies Weighs not upon the lives of these. Amid such wrecks to walk alone; As if, whate'er the spirit's key, It strengthen'd in that solemn air. The heart soon grows to mournful things; And drew their sap all kingly yet! Is broken from some mighty thought, And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought, And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!" Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount The ivy flings its emerald veil, And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill, And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came ANGELO and MELANIE, And earth for us was all in tuneFor while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk'd apart with me! V. I shrink from the embitter'd close "Tis long since I have waked my woes- The throb beats faster at my brow, My brain feels warm with starting tears, And I shall weep-but heed not thou! "I will soothe a while the ache of years. The heart transfix'd-worn out with griefWill turn the arrow for relief. The painter was a child of shame! It stirr'd my pride to know it first, And thought, alas! I knew the worst, A high-born Conti was his mother, The Roman hid his daughter's shame And, with a noble's high desires The boy consumed with hidden fires, And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, The voice that told its bitter tale The demon in my bosom died! VI. St. Mona's morning mass was done; The shrine-lamps struggled with the day; And, rising slowly, one by one, Stole the last worshippers away. The organist play'd out the hymn, The incense, to St. MARY Swung, Had mounted to the cherubim, Or to the pillars thinly clung; The missal that was read no more, And warriors battled in its gleam; Was radiantly fair This earth again may never see She glided up St. Mona's aisle That morning as a bride, And, full as was my heart the while, The fountain may not fail the less May not be loved the more; But as, the fount's full heart beneath, St. Mona has a chapel dim Within the altar's fretted pale, And dies, half-lost, the anthem's wail. Looks down with sweetness half-divine, And ANGELO and MELANIE Still knelt the holy shrine before; But prayer, that morn, was not for me! My heart was lock'd! The lip might stir, The frame might agonize-and yet, O Gon! I could not pray for her! A seal upon my soul was setMy brow was hot--my brain opprestAnd fiends seem'd muttering round, "Your bridal is unblest!" With forehead to the lattice laid, And thin, white fingers straining through, A nun the while had softly pray'd. O, e'en in prayer that voice I knew! Each faltering word, each mournful tone, Each pleading cadence, half-suppress'dSuch music had its like alone On lips that stole it at her breast! And ere the orison was done I loved the mother as the son! And now, the marriage-vow to hear, The priest let fall the golden ring, And as, in dread, I nearer drew, But suddenly begun To steal upon her brain a light, She shriek'd, "It is his son! The bridegroom is thy blood-thy brother! RODOLPH DE BREVERN wrong'd his mother!" And, as that doom of love was heard, My sister sunk, and died, without a sign or word! I shed no tear for her. She died And near her, in a newer bed, THE CONFESSIONAL. I THOUGHT of thee-I thought of thee We furl'd before the coming gale, We flew beneath the straining sail,But thou wert lost for years to me, And day and night I thought of thee! I thought of thee-I thought of thee In France, amid the gay saloon, Where eyes as dark as eyes may be Are many as the leaves in June: Where life is love, and e'en the air Is pregnant with impassion'd thought, And song, and dance, and music are With one warm meaning only fraught, My half-snared heart broke lightly free, And, with a blush, I thought of thee! I thought of thee-I thought of thee In wonders of the deathless arts; I stray'd to lonely Fiesole, On many an eve, and thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee Or, on the Coliseum's wall, When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone, Reclining, with a thought of all That o'er this scene hath come and gone, The shades of Rome would start and flee Unconsciously-I thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee By life's rude changes humbler made. I thought the cowl would fit me well; And, as the black barks glided by, Bore back the lover's passing sigh; It was no place alone to be, I thought of thee-I thought of thee. I thought of thee-I thought of thee Old HOMER's songs around me playing; Or, watching the bewitch'd caique, That o'er the star-lit waters flew, I listen'd to the helmsman Greek, Who sung the song that SAPPHо knew: I thought of thee-I thought of thee And heroes with it, one by one; I lay at noontide in the shade- Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, I thought of thee-I thought of thee And ever on its shores the daughters And, O, the snowy folds between, What eyes of heaven your glances meet! I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee, Into the far and clouded west; I think of thee-I think of thee! LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE. BRIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast, Fling out your field of azure blue; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew! Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars! Point home, my country's flag of stars! The wind blows fair, the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze, And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas! O, fair, fair cloud of snowy sail, In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale, I've seen your semblance in the sky, And long'd, with breaking heart, to flee On such white pinions o'er the sea! Adieu, O lands of fame and eld! I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line, come hurrying back; My lips are dry with vague desire, My cheek once more is hot with joy; My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire! [home! O, what has changed that traveller-boy! Adieu, O soft and southern shore, Those children of the sky again! That light on other earth hath shone, Hath made this land her home forever; And, could I live for this alone, Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slave's can be; Held not the west one glorious star, New-born and blazing for the free, Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet, Rome, with her helot sons, should teach me to forget! Adieu, O, fatherland! I see Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim! My fancy flew from climes more fair, My mother! in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner, Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The ear of Heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me! The wind-toss'd spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blaze: Dear mother! when our lips can speak, When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me― "T will be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had; For all may flee, so feeling lingers! But there's a change, beloved mother, To stir far deeper thoughts of thine; I come-but with me comes another, To share the heart once only mine! Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, One star arose in memory's heaven; Thou, who hast watch'd one treasure only, Water'd one flower with tears at even: Room in thy heart! The hearth she left Is darken'd to make light to ours! There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts that languish more than flowers; She was their light, their very air-- [prayer! Room, mother, in thy heart! place for her in thy Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, TO ERMENGARDE. I KNOW not if the sunshine waste, The birds sing, and the stars float on, And sadness in the sight of flowers; Their love but makes me think of ours, And Heaven gets my heart the while. Like one upon a desert isle, I languish of the dreary hours; I never thought a life could be So flung upon one hope, as mine, dear love, on thee! I sit and watch the summer sky: There comes a cloud through heaven alone; A thousand stars are shining nigh, It feels no light, but darkles on! Yet now it nears the lovelier moon, And, flashing through its fringe of snow, There steals a rosier dye, and soon Its bosom is one fiery glow! The queen of life within it lies, Yet mark how lovers meet to part: The cloud already onward flies, And shadows sink into its heart; And (dost thou see them where thou art?) Fade fast, fade all those glorious dyes! Its light, like mine, is seen no more, And, like my own, its heart seems darker than before. Where press, this hour, those fairy feet? Where look, this hour, those eyes of blue? What music in thine ear is sweet? What odour breathes thy lattice through? Alas, it seeks an orient sea! I envy the west wind of June, Whose wings will bear it up the Rhine; The flower I press upon my brow Were sweeter if its like perfumed thy chamber now! |