The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side,

Peace, peace! I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,

When death is on thy brow?

The world what means it ?-mine is here

I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honor'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

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 wo

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 bath'd 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 deathAnd his worn spirit pass'd.

While ev'n 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 lov'd when they should hate,—like thee, Imelda ! 4

Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.

Italy, a Poem.

TASSO.

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

The ivied altar!-that sweet murmur tells

The rich wild flowers no tale of wo or death; Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rain—

On the dim violets by its marble bed,

And the pale shining water-lily's head.

Sad is that legend's truth.-A fair girl met

One whom she lov'd, by this lone temple's spring, Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,

And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair, With the blue heaven of Italy above,

And citron-odors dying on the air,

And light leaves trembling round, and early love Deep in each breast.-What reck'd their souls of strife Between their fathers? Unto them young life Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;

And if they wept, they wept far other tears

Thar the cold world wrings forth. They stood, that hour, Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower, And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs, Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows.

But change came o'er the scene.

Broke on the whispery shades.

A hurrying tread

Imelda knew

The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled

Up where the cedars made yon avenue