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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 lov'd, 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, tho' 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.


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, tho' 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, lov'd 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 away,—
While thou-Awake! not yet within me die,
Under the burden and the agony

Of this vain tenderness,-my spirit, wake!
Ev'n 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.

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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, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,

I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Thro' 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,
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow

Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light
All things are glorified. From thee my wo
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,

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