Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Some might lament that I were cold, As I when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.
I loved-alas! our life is love;
But when we cease to breathe and move,
I do suppose love ceases too.
I thought, but not as now I do,
Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore, Of all that men had thought before, And all that Nature shows, and more. And still I love, and still I think, But strangely, for my heart can drink
The dregs of such despair, and live, And love;
And if I think, my thoughts come fast; I mix the present with the past, And each seems uglier than the last.
Sometimes I see before me flee
A silver spirit's form, like thee, O Leonora, and I sit
Till by the grated casement's ledge It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge
Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge.
WILT thou forget the happy hours.
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers, Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves instead of mould? Blossoms which were the joys that fell, And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
Forget the dead, the past? O yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it; Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.
O! FOSTER-NURSE of man's abandoned glory Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendor, Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story, As Ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender: The light-invested angel Poesy
Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee.
And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught By loftiest meditations; marble knew
The sculptor's fearless soul-and, as he wrought, The grace of his own power and freedom grew. And (more than all) heroic, just, sublime Thou wert among the false-was this thy crime?
Yes; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine Of direst weeds hangs garlanded-the snake Inhabits its wrecked palaces ;-in thine A beast of subtler venom now doth make Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, And thus thy victim's fate is as thine own.
This fragment refers to an event, told in Sismondi's Hewire des Républiques Italiennes, which occurred during the war when Florence finally subdued Pisa, and reduced it to a province. The opening stanzas are addressed to the conquering city.-MS.
The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare, And love and freedom blossom but to wither; And good and ill like vines entangled are, So that their grapes may oft be plucked together; Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make Thy heart rejoice for dead Mazenghi's sake.
No record of his crime remains in story, But if the morning bright as evening shone, It was some high and holy deed, by glory Pursued into forgetfulness, which won From the blind crowd he made secure and free The Patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy.
For when by sound of trumpet was declared A price upon his life, and there was set A penalty of blood on all who shared So much of water with him as might wet His lips, which speech divided not—he went Alone, as you may guess, to banishment.
Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast, He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold, Month after month endured; it was a feast Whene'er he found those globes of deep red gold Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear, Suspended in their emerald atmosphere.
And in the roofless huts of vast morasses, Deserted by the fever-stricken serf,
All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses,
And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf, And where the huge and speckled aloe made, Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade,
He housed himself. There is a point of strand Near Vada's tower and town; and on one side The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide; And on the other creeps eternally,
Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea. NAPLES, 1818.
LIFT not the painted veil which those who live Call Life; though unreal shapes be pictured there, And it but mimic all we would believe With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it-he sought, For his lost heart was tender, things to love, But found them not, alas! nor was there aught The world contains, the which he could approve, Through the unheeding many he did move, A splendour among shadows, a bright blot Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
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