To a cypress which rose in that flashing rain, Like one tall shaft of some fallen fane.

And thither Ianthis had brought his bride,
And the guests were met by that fountain side.
They lifted the veil from Eudora's face-
It smiled out softly in pensive grace,
With lips of love, and a brow serene,
Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.
Bring wine, bring odours!-the board is spread;
Bring roses! a chaplet for every head!

The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd
On the young and fair from the world embower'd;
The sun look'd not on them in that sweet shade,
The winds amid scented boughs were laid;
And there came by fits, through some wavy tree,
A sound and a gleam of the moaning sea.

Hush! be still! Was that no more
Than the murmur from the shore?
Silence did thick rain-drops beat
On the grass like trampling feet?
Fling down the goblet, and draw the sword!
The groves are fill'd with a pirate horde!
Through the dim olives their sabres shine!--
Now must the red blood stream for wine!

The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, The woods with the shriek of the maidens rang; Under the golden-fruited boughs

There were flashing poniards and darkening brows

Footsteps, o'er garland and lyre that fled,
And the dying soon on a greensward bed.
Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!-
She saw but Ianthis before her lie,

With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow,
Like a child's large tears in its hour of woe,
And a gathering film in his lifted eye,
That sought his young bride out mournfully.
She knelt down beside him-her arms she wound
Like tendrils, his drooping neck around,
As if the passion of that fond grasp
Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp.
But they tore her thence in her wild despair,
The sea's fierce rovers-they left him there:
They left to the fountain a dark-red vein,
And on the wet violets a pile of slain,

And a hush of fear through the summer grove.-
So closed the triumph of youth and love!

III.

Gloomy lay the shore that night, When the moon, with sleeping light,

Bathed each purple Sciote hill—
Gloomy lay the shore, and still.
O'er the wave no gay guitar
Sent its floating music far;
No glad sound of dancing feet
Woke the starry hours to greet.
But a voice of mortal woe,

In its changes wild or low,
Through the midnight's blue repose,
From the sea-beat rocks arose,
As Eudora's mother stood
Gazing o'er th' Egean flood,
With a fix'd and straining eye-
Oh! was the spoilers' vessel nigh?
Yes! there, becalm'd in silent sleep,
Dark and alone on a breathless deep,
On a sea of molten silver, dark
Brooding it frown'd, that evil bark!
There its broad pennon a shadow cast,
Moveless and black from the tall still mast;
And the heavy sound of its flapping sail
Idly and vainly woo'd the gale.
Hush'd was all else had ocean's breast
Rock'd e'en Eudora that hour to rest?

To rest? The waves tremble !-what piercing cry
Bursts from the heart of the ship on high?
What light through the heavens, in a sudden spire,
Shoots from the deck up? Fire! 'tis fire!
There are wild forms hurrying to and fro,
Seen darkly clear on that lurid glow;
There are shout, and signal-gun, and call,
And the dashing of water-but fruitless all!
Man may not fetter, nor ocean tame
The might and wrath of the rushing flame!
It hath twined the mast like a glittering snake,
That coils up a tree from a dusky brake;
It hath touch'd the sails, and their canvass rolls
Away from its breath into shrivell'd scrolls;
It hath taken the flag's high place in the air,
And redden'd the stars with its wavy glare;
And sent out bright arrows, and soar'd in glee,
To a burning mount midst the moonlight sea.
The swimmers are plunging from stern and

prow

Eudora Eudora! where, where art thou?
The slave and his master alike are gone.—
Mother! who stands on the deck alone?
The child of thy bosom !-and lo! a brand
Blazing up high in her lifted hand!

And her veil flung back, and her free dark hair
Sway'd by the flames as they rock and flare;
And her fragile form to its loftiest height
Dilated, as if by the spirit's might;

And her eye with an eagle-gladness fraught-
Oh! could this work be of woman wrought?
Yes! 'twas her deed!-by that haughty smile,
It was hers: she hath kindled her funeral pile !
Never might shame on that bright head be:
Her blood was the Greek's, and hath made her free!

Proudly she stands, like an Indian bride
On the pyre with the holy dead beside;
But a shriek from her mother hath caught her ear,
As the flames to her marriage-robe draw near,
And starting, she spreads her pale arms in vain
To the form they must never infold again.
-One moment more, and her hands are clasp'd-
Fallen is the torch they had wildly grasp'd—
Her sinking knee unto Heaven is bow'd,

And her last look raised through the smoke's dim shroud,

And her lips as in prayer for her pardon move;Now the night gathers o'er youth and love!

Even as man sits, whose heart alone would be With some deep care, and thus can find no more Th' accustom'd joy in all which evening brings, Gathering a household with her quiet wings.

His wife stood hush'd before him-sad, yet mild In her beseeching mien !-he mark'd it not. The silvery laughter of his bright-hair'd child Rang from the greensward round the shelter'd

spot,

But seem'd unheard; until at last the boy
Raised from his heap'd up flowers a glance of joy,

And met his father's face. But then a change
Pass'd swiftly o'er the brow of infant glee,
And a quick sense of something dimly strange
Brought him from play to stand beside the knee
So often climb'd, and lift his loving eyes
That shone through clouds of sorrowful surprise.

Then the proud bosom of the strong man shook;
But tenderly his babe's fair mother laid
Her hand on his, and with a pleading look,

Through tears half-quivering, o'er him bent and said, [prey"What grief, dear friend, hath made thy heart its That thou shouldst turn thee from our love away?

"It is too sad to see thee thus, my friend!

Mark'st thou the wonder on thy boy's fair brow, Missing the smile from thine ? Oh, cheer thee! bend

To his soft arms: unseal thy thoughts e'en now! Thou dost not kindly to withhold the share Of tried affection in thy secret care."

He look'd up into that sweet earnest face,

But sternly, mournfully: not yet the band Was loosen'd from his soul; its inmost place

Not yet unveil'd by love's o'ermastering hand. "Speak low!" he cried, and pointed where on high The white Alps glitter'd through the solemn sky:

"We must speak low amidst our ancient hills

And their free torrents; for the days are come When tyranny lies couch'd by forest rills,

And meets the shepherd in his mountain-home Go, pour the wine of our own grapes in fearKeep silence by the hearth! its foes are near.

"The envy of th' oppressor's eye hath been
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
Under my household tree, if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:

To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee— How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"

The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek; Back on the linden stem she lean'd her form; And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,

Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm. "Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd, And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.

And she, that ever through her home had moved With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile Of woman, calmly loving and beloved,

And timid in her happiness the while, Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hourHer clear glance kindling into sudden power.

Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might

As it found language:-"Are we thus oppress'd?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!

"I know what thou wouldst do;-and be it done! Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me. Trust me to heaven, my husband! This, thy son, The babe whom I have borne thee, must be free! And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth May well give strength-if aught be strong on earth.

"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread Of my desponding tears; now lift once more, My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,

And let thine eagle glance my joy restore! I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued— Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.

"Go forth beside the waters, and along

The chamois paths, and through the forests go; And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong

To the brave hearts that midst the hamlets glow. God shall be with thee, my beloved! Away! Bless but thy child, and leave me-I can pray!"

He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking

To clarion sounds upon the ringing air; [ing He caught her to his heart, while proud tears breakFrom his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair; And "Worthy art thou," was his joyous cry, "That man for thee should gird himself to die!

"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child! Now shall thy name be armour to my heart:

And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
Be taught of thee to choose the better part!
I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell:
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps. Farewell!"

Aud thus they parted, by the quiet lake,

In the clear starlight: he the strength to rouse Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,

To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs, Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

[Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection. who regards it with indifference.]

"Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting-place, a home for all

Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious."

I.

ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its bright fulfilment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be—
Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection,-something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song that gush'd when none were

near,

And dream by night, and weary thought by day, Stealing the brightness from her life awayWhile thou-Awake! not yet within me die! Under the burden and the agony

Of this vain tenderness-my spirit, wake!

Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out !-that he may yet,
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.

II.

It comes! the power

Within me born flows back-my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train

Of glorious images: they throng—they press-
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness-
I shall not perish all !

[now

The bright work grows Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose, Leaf after leaf, to beauty-line by line, Through the pale marble's veins. It grows!-and I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine: I give my own life's history to thy brow, Forsaken Ariadne !—thou shalt wear My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair, Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow

Which in me dwells, as by the summer light All things are glorified. From thee my woe Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight, When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould, Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold, The self-consuming! Speak to him of me, Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea, With the soft sadness of thine earnest eyeSpeak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully, Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throw Into thy frame a voice-a sweet, and low, And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh, To send the passion of its melody Through his pierced bosom-on its tones to bear My life's deep feeling, as the southern air Wafts the faint myrtle's breath-to rise, to swell, To sink away in accents of farewell, Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow Surely my parted spirit yet might know, If love be strong as death!

III.

Now fair thou art,

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart! Yet all the vision that within me wrought,

I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought;

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, Things not of such as die! But I have been Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean, With all these deep affections that o'erflow My aching soul, and find no shore below;

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the From storms a shelter-give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed

Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!
That in his bosom wins not for my name
Th' abiding place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,
Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?
Never! oh, never more! though still thy sky
Be blue as then, my glorious Italy !
And though the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still;
And though the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams.
Never! oh, never more! Where'er I move,
The shadow of this broken-hearted love
Is on me and around! Too well they know
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled! But I go
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell;
From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
The inward burning of those words—“ in vain,"

Sear'd on the heart-I go. Twill soon be past! Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven,

And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth-who know'st not what was given In that devotedness-the sad, and deep, And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, beloved one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness !-and unto me Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be So richly bless'd! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh; With thee to listen, while the tones of song Swept even as part of our sweet air alongTo listen silently; with thee to gaze On forms, the deified of olden days— This had been joy enough; and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,

How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame
A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!-The fire
Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name-
As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre
When its full chords are hush'd-awhile to live,
And one day haply in thy heart revive
Sad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound,
A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound;
I leave it, on my country's air to dwell-
Say proudly yet-"Twas hers who loved me well!”

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

[The Baron Von der Wart, accused-though it is believed unjustly-as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart; or, Fidelity unto Death.]

We have the blessed heaven in view, Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,
With such a curdling cheek-
Love, Love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak!

The wind rose high-but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:-
Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near;
While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low

Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit pass'd!
While even as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot,
And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not.

IMELDA.

"Sometimes

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,

And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda! "1
ITALY; a Poem.

"Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma."-TA880.

WE have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars: this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,
Up through the shadowy grass the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath

1 The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des Républiques Italiennes, vol. iii. p. 443.