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That time is dead forever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead forever!

We look on the past

And stare aghast
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled

To death on life's dark river.

The stream we gazed on then, rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;

But we -yet stand

In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.

November 5th, 1817.


Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.



Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one

Who staggers forth into ihe air and sun

From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, ^

Bewildered, and incapable, and ever

Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain

Of usual shapes, till the laun iar train

Of objects and of persons passed like things

Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings,

Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;

The vows to which her lips had sworn assent

Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,

Deafening the lost intelligence within.

And so she moved under the bridal veil,

Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale,

And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth,

And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,—

And of the gold and jewels glittering there

She scarce felt conscious,—but the weary glare

Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light,

* This fragment is part of a poem which Mr. Shetlej intended to write, founded on a story to be found in the lint volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Florentine''

Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight.
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud
Was less heavenly fair—her face was bowed,
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair
Which led from the cathedral to the street;
And ever as she went her light fair feet
Erased these images.

The bride-maidens who round her thronging came,
Rome with a sense of self-rebuke and shame,
.Envying the unenviable; and others
Making the joy which should have been anothcrs's
Their own by gentle sympathy ; and some
SighingNto think of an unhappy home:
Some few admiring what can ever lure
Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure
Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat; a thing
Better to taste sweet in imagining.

But they are all dispersed—and, lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,
Alone within the garden now her own;
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage bells,
Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;—
Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, untH slimmer seems
A mockeiy of itself--when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,

He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,

And said—" Is this thy faith ?" and then as one

Whose sleeping face is stricken by the snn

With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise

And look upon his day of life with eyes

Which weep in vain that they can dream no more,

Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore

To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood

Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued

Said—" Friend, if earthly violence or ill,

Suspicion, donbt, or the tyrannic will

Of parents, chance, or custom, time or change,

Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,

Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech,

With all their stings [ ] can impeach

Our love,—we love not: —if the grave which hides

The victim from the tyrant, and divides

The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart

Imperious inquisition to the heart

That is another's, could dissever ours,

We love not."—" What do not the silent hours

Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed?

Is not that ring" a pledge, he would have said,

Of broken vows, but she with patient look *
The golden circle from her linger took,
And said—" Accept this token of my faith,
The pledge of vows to be death;
And I am dead or shall be soon—my knell
Will mix it's music with that merry bell,
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said
'We toll a corpse out of a marriage bed?'

The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn

Will serve unladed for my bier—so soon

That even the dying violet will not die

Before Ginevra." The strong fantasy

Had made her accents weaker and more weak.

And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek,

And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere

Round her, which chilled the burning noon with fear

Making her but an image of the thought,

Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought

News of the terrors of the coming time.

Like an accuser branded with the crime

He would have cast on a beloved friend,

Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end

The pale betrayer— he then with vain repentance

Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence —

Antonio stood and would have spoken, when

The compound voice of women and of men

Was heard approaching ; he retired, while she

Was led amid the admiring company

Back to the palace,—and her maidens soon

Changed her attire for the afternoon,

And left her at her own request to keep

An hour of quiet and rest:—like one asleep

With open eyes and folded hands she lay,

Pale in the light of the declining day.

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,
And in the lighted hall the guests are met;
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light
Of love, and admiration, and delight

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