Imágenes de páginas


Good night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite ;
Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood,

Then it will be good night. *

To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light,
That night is good ; because, my love,

They never say good night.


[blocks in formation]

Oh! foster-nurse of man's abandoned glory,
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendour;
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 Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, which cecured during the war when Florence finally subdued Pisa, and reduced it to a province. The opening stanzas are addressed to the conquering city.

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 sone high and holy deed, by glory
Pursued into forgetfulness, which won
From the blind crowd be 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 will 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, cold, and toil,
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; an'l on one side
The treacherous marsh divides it from the land,
Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide,
And on the other creep: eternally,
Through mudily weeds, the shallow, sullen sea.

Naples, 1818


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 Leanora, and I sit
[ ] still watching it,
Till by the grated casement's ledge
It fades, with such a sigh, as sedge
Breathes o'er the breezy streamlet's edge.

« AnteriorContinuar »