Oh! that love's quenchless power

Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky,

And through thy groves its dying music shower, Italy! Italy!

The nightingale is there,

The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume,
The south wind's whisper in the scented air-
It will not pierce the tomb!

Never, oh! never more,

On thy Rome's purple heaven mine eye shall dwell, Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore— My Italy! farewell!

Alas!-thy hills among

Had I but left a memory of my name,
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song,
Unto immortal fame!

But like a lute's brief tone,
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast,
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone,
So hath my spirit pass'd-

Pouring itself away

As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns

That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns, Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies, Leaving no echo to the summer woods

Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs
Which thrill'd their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me!

Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue

Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea, And when woods kindle into spring's first hue, Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls,

Where life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind for you,

My memory with all glorious things to dwell!
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew—
Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!

MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.

"O! mein Geist, ich fühle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem, das keinem Menschen gegönnt ist."-TIECK.

THE chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd,
The voice hath died away,

Whence music, like sweet waters, gush'd
But yesterday.

Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell,
The full o'ersweeping tone,

The sounds that sigh'd "Farewell, farewell!”
Are gone all gone!

The love, whose fervent spirit pass'd
With the rich measure's flow;

The grief, to which it sank at last—
Where are they now?

They are with the scents by summer's breath Borne from a rose now shed:

With the words from lips long seal'd in death— For ever fled.

The sea-shell of its native deep
A moaning thrill retains;

But earth and air no record keep
Of parted strains.

And all the memories, all the dreams,
They woke in floating by;

The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams-
Could these too die?

They died! As on the water's breast
The ripple melts away,

When the breeze that stirr'd it sinks to rest-
So perish'd they!

Mysterious in their sudden birth,

And mournful in their close,

Passing, and finding not on earth

Aim or repose.

Whence were they?—like the breath of flowers
Why thus to come and go?

A long, long journey must be ours
Ere this we know!

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH.

"Was mir fehlt?-Mir fehlt ja alles,
Bin so ganz verlassen hier!"

Tyrolese Melody.

THE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate! the fire is quench'd and gone

That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing shone;

The place where mirth and music met is hush'd through day and night.

Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made light!

But scatter'd are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore,

Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to

meet no more.

Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or mirth,

Unbound is that sweet wreath of home-alas! the lonely hearth!

The voices that have mingled here now speak an

other tongue,

Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung.

Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone:

The hearth, the hearth is desolate! the bright fire quench'd and gone!

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee?

Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth or sea?

Oh! some are hush'd, and some are changed, and never shall one strain

Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again.

And of the hearts that here were link'd by longremember'd years,

Alas! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's tears!

One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone :

For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quench'd and gone!

Not so

-'tis not a broken chain: thy memory binds them still,

Thou holy hearth of other days! though silent now

and chill.