Granada by its winding stream, And there the Alhambra still recalls Allah il Allah! through its halls Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, The fascination and allure Of the sweet landscape chains the will; How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, VITTORIA COLONNA VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimné), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. NCE more, once more, Inarimé ON I see thy purple hills!— once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna - it is she Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom, The shadows of the chestnut trees, The song of birds, and, more than these, The respiration of the sea, The soft caresses of the air, Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Of inconsolable lament. Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist. Thy castle on the crags above THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 'N and lone, IN that desolate, and an and Yellowstone Roar down their mountain path, And the menace of their wrath. "Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, Of the White Chief with yellow hair!" And the mountains dark and high From their crags reëchoed the cry In the meadow, spreading wide The Indian village stood; All was silent as a dream, And the blue-jay in the wood. In his war paint and his beads, Into the fatal snare The White Chief with yellow hair Not one returned again. The sudden darkness of death And smoke of a furnace fire: They lay in their bloody attire. But the foemen fled in the night, As a ghastly trophy, bore The brave heart, that beat no more, Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song, |