"The envy of the 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 chained, 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 leaned 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 passed, 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 hour-
Her 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 gathered might
As it found language :-' "Are we thus oppressed?
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 darkened 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;

He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking
From 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!"

And 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-curtained 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 failed 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 lavished; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song that gushed when none were near,
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away-
While 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!

The bright work grows

Beneath my hand, unfolded as a rose,

Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,

I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Through the pale marble's veins.

It grows!-and now
I give my own life's history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne !-thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touched 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 passed away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, the untold,
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye-
Speak 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;
An eye to be my star; a voice to bring

Hope o'er my path like sounds that breathe of spring :
These are denied me-dreamt of still in vain.

Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,

Rising triumphantly, to die ere long
In dirge-like echoes.

IV.

Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work! in thee.

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

The abiding place it asked! 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
Thin 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,"
Seared 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 knowest 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 formed to be
So richly blessed! 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 along-
To 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 soared, 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 hushed-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.] "Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;

But nothing, till that latest agony

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose
This fixed and sacred hold.

In the terrific face of armed law,

In thy dark prison-house,

JOANNA BAILLie.

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee."

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

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 ;