[At the Revolution in Naples, in 1779, two brothers, one fifteen, the other twelve years old, were condemned to death, and upon the entreaties of their mother, the King's attorney told her that he could spare one of them, and hade her choose.]
I CANNOT tell I dare not tell,
On which the fearful choice shall rest;
They both have frolick'd 'neath my gaze,
They both were nurtur'd at my breast.
O, Henry, Henry, look not thus
In silence on thy mother's face!
Speak, speak, my patient boy, and break
That spell of melancholy grace.
And yet thy shrill and startling cry,
My Edward, cuts thy mother's soul;
That pleading voice I cannot bear,—
Thy dreadful eloquence control.
Thy wooing smile, thine eye of blue,
How oft thy father call'd them mine!
Can I give up the look he prais'd?
Can I that eye of love resign?
My boy! my boy! I thought that thou
Shouldst smooth my pillow at its close;
I hoped thy kind and soothing hand,
Would rock life's cradle of repose.
And thou, my Henry, with thy brow
And eagle look of high emprize;
I dream'd that thou wouldst clear my path,
And guard the way where danger lies.
That brow, that look, thy father's look,
O no! I cannot bid thee die :
Would they had wrapt me in his shroud,
How tranquilly I there could lie!
Go, boys-away! I will not choose;
God must resume the lives he gave —
For me, I bear a breaking heart,
Which soon will lay me in the grave.
SHE comes, my Isadore, how large the claim,
The double claim, she lays upon my care
For her sweet self, and almost dearer still,
As her pure mother's dying gift of love!
How rich the rose is opening on her cheek!
Not the red rose's hue, but that soft dye
That slowly fades like morning clouds, which melt.
In mottled softness on the whitening heav'n.
Her chestnut locks float in the sunshine free!
Her soft blue eyes, deep in their tenderness,
Reflect all beautiful and kindly things.
She would seem infantile, but that her brow
In lilied majesty uptowers, and tells
That lofty thought and chasten'd pride are there!
And must I break the calm of that young spirit?
Come o'er that peaceful lake with ruffling storms?
Wake up its billowy strife, and wreck perchance
The forms of hope that float above its depths? [Isadore enters.
She knows what I would say, and reads
The thoughts which only yestermorn I breath'd
With sympathetic sighs and mournful tone
I may not listen, father. I have vow'd
On the high altar of a faithful heart
To be his bride, and I will keep the vow.
But thou didst vow to purity and truth,
At least its semblance, and thou wert deceiv'd.
Deceiv'd, my father? Look upon his eyes
Where truth lies mirror'd; look upon his lips
That speak in wreathed smiles ingenuous,
And then thou canst not say I am deceiv'd.
Last eve, it was a calm and lovely one,
We stood upon this garden-mound, where flowers, Sprang up like blessings 'neath our happy tread;
The moon look'd down with that still gentle eye
With which she greets young love; - courage I drew
From the pure beaming of her heavenly gaze,
And when my hand poor Julian took, I breathed
Our traitor fears- an angry flush, that spake
Of injur'd innocence, lit up his brow.
Unjust, ungenerous Isadore! he said,
Think'st thou the nectar-beverage of the gods
Could tempt me from thy love? No, Isadore ;
Perchance I might, not knowing thee, have prized
A coarser joy but now that thy young heart
In love's pulsation answers true to mine,
Now that thy lips, blushing and faltering,
Have seal'd thy vow, I never more can stray.
My Isadore, 'tis hard to break the wreath,
That buds and twines around a faithful heart.
But, dearest, love has blinded thee, nor canst
Thou see the incipient form of woe. His words,
Heartless to me, like oracles arrest
Thy listening ear; his eyes with revel glazed,
Seem but to thee bright orbs of hope and truth.
Arouse thyself, my child, awake, awake!
Thou'rt folding to thy heart a serpent's coil,
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