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, Up thro' the shadowy grass, the fountain wells, 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 On the dim violets by its marble bed, 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-odours 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 Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, that hour, Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower, And star, just gleaming thro' the cypress boughs, Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows. But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled Up where the cedars make yon avenue Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caughtWas it the clash of swords ?--a swift dark thought Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd, And from her eye the sunny sparkle took One moment with its fearfulness, and shook Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast Might rock the rose. Once more, and yet once more, She still'd her heart to listen,—all was o'er ; Sweet summer winds alone were heard to sigh, Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by. That night Imelda's voice was in the song, Lovely it floated thro' the festive throng, A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue, Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest, When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again |