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And, on the burden of the air,

The breath of buds came faint and rare;
And, far in the transparent sky,
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen,
Soaring deliriously high;
And through the clefts of newer green
Yon waters dash'd their living pearls;
And, with a gayer smile and bow,

Troop'd on the merry village-girls;
And, from the Contadina's brow,

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,-
O, mocking eyes! a golden tress
Floats back upon this summer gale!
A foot is tripping on the grass!

A laugh rings merry in mine ear!
I see a bounding shadow pass!-—

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.
His frame was slight, his forehead high,
And swept by threads of raven hair;
The fire of thought was in his eye,

And he was pale and marble fair;
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,

And loved him e'er the echo died:
And so, alas! did MELANIE!

We sat and watch'd the fount a while
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile

Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away;

And, in this changefulness of mood,
Forgotten now those May-day spells,

We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood,
And, gazing on the Cascatelles,

(Whose hurrying waters, wild and white,
Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,)

I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And, lo! upon a bank alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown,
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
To see the picture as he slept,
Upon his feet he lightly sprung:
And, gazing with a wild surprise
Upon the face of MELANIE,

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
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before-

She who had smiled for me alone-
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!

It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;

The air had breathed of balm-the flower

Of radiant beauty seem'd to be

But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
O, though it be so heavenly high

The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,

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
Its bitter jealousy to rest,--

And difficult--the eye gets dim-
The lip wants power to smile on him!

I thank sweet MARY Mother now,

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide,

And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race,

To one who ask'd so much of me,—
I look'd but in my sister's face,
And mused if she would happier be;
And, hour by hour, and day by day,

I loved the gentle painter more,
And in the same soft measure wore
My selfish jealousy away;

And I began to watch his mood,
And feel, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he woo'd
That loving girl, so fond and fair,

And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
But MELANIE--I little dream'd

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;
The meek, moss-folded bud of morn
Flung open to the light and dew;
The first and half-seen star of even
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven-
Similitudes perchance may be;
But these are changes oftener seen,
And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mien.
"T was written in her very air,
That love had pass'd and enter'd there.

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.
The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane,
The broken column, vast and prone-
It may be joy, it may be pain,

Amid such wrecks to walk alone;
The saddest man will sadder be,
The gentlest lover gentler there,

As if, whate'er the spirit's key,

It strengthen'd in that solemn air.

The heart soon grows to mournful things;
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghost-like in the CESAR's home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,

And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath

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 flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale,

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
Of my own melancholy tale.

"Tis long since I have waked my woes-
And nerve and voice together fail!

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,
For I had question'd but his name,

And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;

A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.

The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name-
And little else to live withal!

And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,

The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;

And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long,
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd-but no!

The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of MELANIE,
And gazed so gaspingly on me-

The demon in my bosom died!
"Not thine," I said, "another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!"

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,

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Had mounted to the cherubim,

Or to the pillars thinly clung;
And boyish chorister replaced

The missal that was read no more,
And closed, with half-irreverent haste,
Confessional and chancel-door;
And as, through aisle and oriel pane,
The sun wore round his slanting beam,
The dying martyr stirr'd again,

And warriors battled in its gleam;
And costly tomb and sculptured knight
Show'd warm and wondrous in the light.
I have not said that MELANIE

Was radiantly fair

This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!

She glided up St. Mona's aisle

That morning as a bride,

And, full as was my heart the while,
I bless'd her in my pride!

The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,
And a sister for her loveliness

May not be loved the more;

But as, the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seem'd to breathe
Its brightness over mine!

St. Mona has a chapel dim

Within the altar's fretted pale,
Where faintly comes the swelling hymn,

And dies, half-lost, the anthem's wail.
And here, in twilight meet for prayer,
A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine,
And RAPHAEL'S MARY, soft and fair,

Looks down with sweetness half-divine,
And here St. Mona's nuns alway
Through latticed bars are seen to pray.
Ave and sacrament were o'er,

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 nun unveil'd her brow;
When, sudden, to my startled ear,
There crept a whisper, hoarse, like fear,
"DE BREVERN! is it thou!"

The priest let fall the golden ring,
The bridegroom stood aghast;
While, like some wierd and frantic thing,
The nun was muttering fast;

And as, in dread, I nearer drew,
She thrust her arms the lattice through,
And held me to her straining view;

But suddenly begun

To steal upon her brain a light,
That stagger'd soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,

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
With her last sunshine in her eyes.
Earth held for her no joy beside
The hope just shatter'd, and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell;

And near her, in a newer bed,
Her lover-brother-sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!

THE CONFESSIONAL.

I THOUGHT of thee-I thought of thee
On ocean many a weary night,
When heaved the long and sullen sea,
With only waves and stars in sight.
We stole along by isles of balm,

We furl'd before the coming gale,
We slept amid the breathless calm,

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 Florence, where the fiery hearts
Of Italy are breathed away

In wonders of the deathless arts;
Where strays the Contadina, down
Val d'Arno, with song of old;
Where clime and women seldom frown,
And life runs over sands of gold;

I stray'd to lonely Fiesole,

On many an eve, and thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Rome, when, on the Palatine,
Night left the Cesar's palace free
To Time's forgetful foot and mine;

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
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,

By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here MILTON framed his Paradise;
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,

I thought the cowl would fit me well;
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me,
Of heart's-ease-but I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Venice, on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,
Like dust of silver, slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,

And, as the black barks glided by,
The water, to my leaning ear,

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
In the Ionian isles, when straying
With wise ULYSSES by the sea,

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:
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd as I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Greece, when rose the Parthenon
Majestic o'er the Egean sea,

And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where LAIS and LEONTIUM stray'd
Discussing PLATO's mystic theme,

I lay at noontide in the shade-
The Egean wind, the whispering tree
Had voices-and I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee
In Asia, on the Dardanelles,
Where, swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank

Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless HELEN drank,
And VENUS laved her locks of gold,)
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea:

And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious east are seen,
Printing the brink with slipper'd feet,

And, O, the snowy folds between,

What eyes of heaven your glances meet!
Peris of light no fairer be,
Yet, in Stamboul, I thought of thee.

I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee,
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set.
Though roving beneath orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies

Into the far and clouded west;

I think of thee-I think of thee!
O, dearest! hast thou thought of me!

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!
As leaves the ship this dying foam,
His visions fade behind his weary heart speeds

Adieu, O soft and southern shore,
Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven;
Those forms of beauty, seen no more,
Yet once to Art's rapt vision given!
O, still the enamour'd sun delays,
And pries through fount and crumbling fane,
To win to his adoring gaze

Those children of the sky again!
Irradiate beauty, such as never

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,
And, though to freer skies I flee,

My heart swells, and my eyes are dim!
As knows the dove the task you give her,
When loosed upon a foreign shore;
As spreads the rain-drop in the river
In which it may have flow'd before-
To England, over vale and mountain,

My fancy flew from climes more fair,
My blood, that knew its parent fountain,
Ran warm and fast in England's air.

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:
And, by a thread from heaven unbroken,
I know my mother lives and prays!

Dear mother! when our lips can speak,
When first our tears will let us see,

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

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Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet:
Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.
There's no contentment in a world like this,
Save in forgetting the immortal dream;
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss,
That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream;
Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye
And pine till it is hooded from the sky.

TO ERMENGARDE.

I KNOW not if the sunshine waste,
The world is dark since thou art gone!
The hours are, O! so leaden-paced!

The birds sing, and the stars float on,
But sing not well, and look not fair;
A weight is in the summer air,

And sadness in the sight of flowers;
And if I go where others smile,

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?
What word is on thy lip? What tone,
What look, replying to thine own?
Thy steps along the Danube stray,

Alas, it seeks an orient sea!
Thou wouldst not seem so far away,
Flow'd but its waters back to me!
I bless the slowly-coming moon,
Because its eye look'd late in thine;

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!

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