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And feeding a slow fire on all its powers,
Until the boon for which we gasp in vain,
If hardly won at length, too late made ours
When the soul's wing is broken, comes like rain
Withheld till evening, on the stately flowers
Which wither'd in the noontide, ne'er again
To lift their heads in glory.-So doth Earth
Breathe on her gifts, and melt away their worth.

The sailor dies in sight of that green shore,
Whose fields, in slumbering beauty, seem'd to lie
On the deep's foam, amidst its hollow roar
Call'd up to sunlight by his fantasy-

And, when the shining desert-mists that wore
The lake's bright semblance, have been all pass'd by,
The pilgrim sinks beside the fountain-wave,
Which flashes from its rock, too late to save.

Or if we live, if that, too dearly bought,
And made too precious by long hopes and fears,
Remains our own--love, darken'd and o'erwrought
By memory of privation, love, which wears
And casts o'er life a troubled hue of thought,
Becomes the shadow of our closing years,
Making it almost misery to possess

Aught, watch'd with such unquiet tenderness.

Such unto him, the bard, the worn and wild,
And sick with hope deferr'd, from whom the sky,

With all its clouds in burning glory piled,
Had been shut out by long captivity;
Such, freedom was to Tasso.-As a child
Is to the mother, whose foreboding eye
In its too radiant glance, from day to day,
Reads that which calls the brightest first away.

And he became a wanderer-in whose breast
Wild fear, which, e'en when every sense doth sleep,
Clings to the burning heart, a wakeful guest,
Sat brooding as a spirit, raised to keep

Its gloomy vigil of intense unrest

O'er treasures, burthening life, and buried deep

In cavern-tomb, and sought, through shades and

stealth,

By some pale mortal, trembling at his wealth.

But woe for those who trample o'er a mind!
A deathless thing.-They know not what they do,
bind
Or what they deal with !-Man perchance may
The flower his step hath bruised; or light anew
The torch he quenches; or to music wind
Again the lyre-string from his touch that flew→
But for the soul!-oh! tremble, and beware
To lay rude hands upon God's mysteries there!

For blindness wraps that world—our touch may turn
Some balance, fearfully and darkly hung,
Or put out some bright spark, whose ray should burn
To point the way a thousand rocks among-

Or break some subtle chain, which none discern,
Though binding down the terrible, the strong,
Th' o'ersweeping passions-which to loose on life
Is to set free the elements for strife!

Who then to power and glory shall restore
That which our evil rashness hath undone ?
Who unto mystic harmony once more

Attune those viewless chords ?-There is but One!
He that through dust the stream of life can pour,
The Mighty and the Merciful alone!

-Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shadeHe leaves to man the ruin man hath made !—

TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie." Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd

The citron's breath went by;

While the deep gold of eventide
Burn'd in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,
Hush'd as by words of power.

With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gazed
Up to their mother's face;

With brows through parting ringlets raised,

They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-

Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,

Young holy hearts were stirr'd ;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between ;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

* It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all

men.

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