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But on my heart the seal is set
Love never sets in vain!
Fruitless as constancy may be,
No chance, no change, may turn from thee
One who has loved thee wildly, well-
But whose first love-vow breathed-farewell?

And lays which only told of love
In all its varied sorrowing,
The echoes of the broken heart,
Were all the songs I now could sing.
Legends of olden times in Greece,
When not a flower but had its tale;
When spirits haunted each green oak;
When voices spoke in every gale;
When not a star shone in the sky
Without its own love history.
Amid its many songs was one

That suited well with my sick mind.
I sang it when the breath of flowers
Came sweet upon the midnight wind.

LEADES AND CYDIPPE.

She sat her in her twilight bower,
A temple form'd of leaf and flower;
Rose and myrtle framed the roof,
To a shower of April proof;
And primroses, pale gems of spring,
Lay on the green turf glistening,
Close by the violet, whose breath
Is so sweet in a dewy wreath.

And O, that myrtle! how green it grew!
With flowers as white as the pearls of dew
That shone beside and the glorious rose
Lay like a beauty in warm repose,
Blushing in slumber. The air was bright
With the spirit and glow of its crimson light.

CYDIPPE had turn'd from her column'd hall, Where, the queen of the feast, she was worshipp'd by all:

Where the vases were burning with spices and flowers,

And the odorous waters were playing in showers;
And lamps were blazing-those lamps of perfume
Which shed such a charm of light over the bloom
Of woman, when Pleasure a spell has thrown
Over one night hour and made it her own.
And the ruby wine-cup shone with a ray,
As the gems of the East had there melted away;
And the bards were singing those songs of fire,
That bright eyes and the goblet so well inspire ;-
While she, the glory and pride of the hour,
Sat silent and sad in her secret bower!

There is a grief that wastes the heart, Like mildew on a tulip's dyes,

When hope, deferr'd but to depart,

Loses its smiles, but keeps its sighs: When love's bark, with its anchor gone, Clings to a straw, and still trusts on. O, more than all!-methinks that love

Should pray that it might ever be Beside the burning shrine which had Its young heart's fond idolatry. O, absence is the night of love! Lovers are very children then! Fancying ten thousand feverish shapes, Until their light returns again. A look, a word, is then recall'd, And thought upon until it wears, What is, perhaps, a very shade,

The tone and aspect of our fears. And this is what was withering now The radiance of CYDIPPE'S brow. She watch'd until her cheek grew pale; The green wave bore no bounding sail: Her sight grew dim; 'mid the blue ain No snowy dove came floating there, The dear scroll hid beneath his wing, With plume and soft eye glistening, To seek again, in leafy dome, The nest of its accustom'd home! Still far away, o'er land and seas, Linger'd the faithless LEADES.

She thought on the spring days, when she had been,

Lonely and lovely, a maiden queen:
When passion to her was a storm at sea,
Heard 'mid the green land's tranquillity.
But a stately warrior came from afar;
He bore on his bosom the glorious scar
So worshipp'd by woman-the death-seal of

war.

And the maiden's heart was an easy prize, When valour and faith were her sacrifice.

Methinks, might that sweet season last,
In which our first love-dream is past,
Ere doubts and cares, and jealous pain,
Are flaws in the heart's diamond-chain :-
Men might forget to think on heaven,
And yet have the sweet sin forgiven.

But ere the marriage-feast was spread,
LEADES said that he must brook
To part awhile from that best light,
Those eyes which fix'd his every look:
Just press again his native shore,
And then he would that shore resign
For her dear sake, who was to him
His household god!-his spirit's shrine!

He came not! Then the heart's decay Wasted her silently away :

A sweet fount, which the mid-day sun Has all too hotly look'd upon!

It is most sad to watch the fall
Of autumn leaves! - but worst of all
It is to watch the flower of spring
Faded in its fresh blossoming!
To see the once so clear blue orb

Its summer light and warmth forget;
Darkening beneath its tearful lid,
Like a rain-beaten violet!
To watch the banner-rose of health
Pass from the cheek!-to mark how plain
Upon the wan and sunken brow,
Become the wanderings of each vein !
The shadowy hand so thin, so pale!
The languid step!-the drooping head!
The long wreaths of neglected hair!

The lip whence red and smile are fled!
And having watch'd thus, day by day,
Light, life, and colour, pass away!
To see, at length, the glassy eye
Fix dull in dread mortality;
Mark the last ray, catch the last breath,
Till the grave sets its sign of death!

This was CYDIPPE's fate!-They laid The maiden underneath the shade Of a green cypress, and that hour The tree was wither'd, and stood bare! The spring brought leaves to other trees, But never other leaf grew there! It stood, 'mid others flourishing, A blighted, solitary thing.

The summer sun shone on that tree When shot a vessel o'er the seaWhen sprang a warrior from the prowLEADES! by the stately brow. Forgotten toil, forgotten care, All his worn heart has had to bear. That heart is full! He hears the sigh That breathed Farewell!' so tenderly. If even then it was most sweet, What will it be that now they meet? Alas! alas! Hope's fair deceit ! He spurr'd o'er land, has cut the wave, To look but on CYDIPPE's grave.

It has blossom'd in beauty, that lone tree,
LEADES' kiss restored its bloom;
For wild he kiss'd the wither'd stem-
It grew upon CYDIPPE'S tomb!
And there he dwelt. The hottest ray,
Still dew upon the branches lay
Like constant tears. The winter came;
But still the green tree stood the same.

And it was said, at evening's close,
A sound of whisper'd music rose;
That 'twas the trace of viewless feet
Made the flowers more than flowers sweet.
At length LEADES died. That day,
Bark and green foliage past away
From the lone tree, -again a thing
Of wonder and of perishing!

One evening I had roam'd beside
The winding of the Arno's tide;
The sky was flooded with moonlight:
Below the waters azure bright,
Palazzos with their marble halls,
Green gardens, silver waterfalls,
And orange groves and citron shades,
And cavaliers and dark-eyed maids;
Sweet voices singing, echoes sent
From many a rich-toned instrument.
I could not bear this loveliness!

It was on such a night as this
That love had lighted up my dream
Of long despair and short-lived bliss.
I sought the city; wandering on,
Unconscious where my steps might be :
My heart was deep in other thoughts;
All places were alike to me:-
At length I stopp'd beneath the walls
Of San Mark's old cathedral halls.
I enter'd: and, beneath the roof,
Ten thousand wax-lights burnt on high;
And incense on the censers fumed

As for some great solemnity.

The white-robed choristers were singing;
Their cheerful peal the bells were ringing:
Then deep-voiced music floated round,
As the far arches sent forth sound-
The stately organ:-and fair bands
Of young girls strew'd, with lavish hands,
Violets o'er the mosaic floor;

And sang while scattering the sweet store.

I turn'd me to a distant aisle

Where but a feeble glimmering came (Itself in darkness) of the smile

Sent from the tapers' perfumed flame And colour'd as each pictured pane Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain :While, from the window o'er my head, A dim and sickly gleam was shed From the young moon, enough to show That tomb and tablet lay below. I leant upon one monument,

"Twas sacred to unhappy love: On it were carved a blighted pineA broken ring-a wounded dove.

And two or three brief words told all

Her history who lay beneath :

The flowers at morn her bridal flowers,Form'd, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.'

I could but envy her. I thought,

How sweet it must be thus to die! Your last looks watch'd-your last sigh caught, As life or heaven were in that sigh! Passing in loveliness and light; Your heart as pure, -your cheek as bright As the spring-rose, whose petals shut By sun unscorch'd, by shower unwet; Leaving behind a memory Shrined in love's fond eternity.

But I was waken'd from this dream

By a burst of light-a gush of song-
A welcome, as the stately doors
Pour'd in a gay and gorgeous throng.
I could see all from where I stood.
And first I look'd upon the bride;
She was a pale and lovely girl;-
But, O God! who was by her side ?-
LORENZO!-No, I did not speak;
My heart beat high, but could not break.
I shriek'd not, wept not; but stood there
Motionless in my still despair;
As I were forced by some strange thrall,
To bear with and to look on all,-
I heard the hymn, I heard the vow:
(Mine ear throbs with them even now!)
I saw the young bride's timid cheek

Blushing beneath her silver veil.
I saw LORENZO kneel! Methought
('Twas but a thought!) he too was pale.
But when it ended, and his lip

Was prest to hers-I saw no more!

My heart grew cold, my brain swam round,-
I sank upon the cloister floor!
I lived, if that may be call'd life,
From which each charm of life has fled-

Happiness gone, with hope and love,-
In all but breath already dead.

Rust gather'd on the silent chords

Of my neglected lyre, the breeze Was now its mistress: music brought For me too bitter memories! The ivy darken'd o'er my bower; Around, the weeds choked every flower. I pleased me in this desolateness, As each thing bore my fate's impress.

At length I made myself a task-
To paint that Cretan maiden's fate,
Whom Love taught such deep happiness,
And whom Love left so desolate.

I drew her on a rocky shore :-
Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o er
With white sea-foam ;-her arms were bare,
Flung upwards in their last despair.
Her naked feet the pebbles prest;
The tempest-wind sang in her vest :
A wild stare in her glassy eyes;
White lips, as parch'd by their hot sighs;
And cheek more pallid than the spray,
Which, cold and colourless, on it lay :-
Just such a statue as should be

Placed ever, Love! beside thy shrine;
Warning thy victims of what ills-
What burning tears, false god! are thine.
Before her was the darkling sea:
Behind the barren mountains rose-

A fit home for the broken heart

To weep away life, wrongs, and woes!

I had now but one hope:-that when

The hand that traced these tints was coldIts pulse but in their passion seenLORENZO might these tints behold, And find my grief; -think-see-feel all I felt, in this memorial!

It was one evening, the rose-light

Was o'er each green veranda shining; Spring was just breaking, and white buds Were 'mid the darker ivy twining. My hall was fill'd with the perfume Sent from the early orange bloom: The fountain, in the midst, was fraught With rich hues from the sunset caught ;And the first song came from the dove, Nestling in the shrub alcove. But why pause on my happiness?

Another step was with mine there Another sigh than mine made sweet With its dear breath the scented air!

LORENZO! could it be my hand,

That now was trembling in thine own? LORENZO! could it be mine ear

That drank the music of thy tone?

We sat us by a lattice, where

Came in the soothing evening breeze, Rich with the gifts of early flowers, And the soft wind-lute's symphonies. And in the twilight's vesper-hour, Beneath the hanging jasmine-shower, I heard a tale, -as fond, as dear As e'er was pour'd in woman's ear!

LORENZO'S HISTORY.

I was betroth'd from earliest youth To a fair orphan, who was left

Beneath my father's roof and care,-
Of every other friend bereft:
An heiress, with her fertile vales,
Caskets of Indian gold and pearl;
Yet meek as poverty itself,

And timid as a peasant girl: A delicate, frail thing, but made For spring sunshine, or summer shade ;A slender flower, unmeet to bear One April shower, so slight, so fair.

I loved her as a brother loves

His favourite sister: - and when war First call'd me from our long-shared home To bear my father's sword afar, I parted from her,-not as one Whose life and soul are wrung by parting: With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, And burning tears like lifeblood starting. Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard The prayer that bore my name above: The "Farewell!" that kiss'd off her tears, Had more of pity than of love! I thought of her not with that deep, Intensest memory love will keep More tenderly than life. To me

She was but as a dream of home,One of those calm and pleasant thoughts That o'er the soldier's spirit come; Remembering him, when battle lowrs, Of twilight walks and fireside hours.

I came to thy bright FLORENCE when
The task of blood was done:
I saw thee! Had I lived before?
O, no! my life but then begun.
Ay, by that blush! the summer rose
Has not more luxury of light!
Ay, by those eyes! whose language is

Like what the clear stars speak at night,
Thy first look was a fever spell!-
Thy first word was an oracle
Which seal'd my fate! I worshipp'd thee,
My beautiful, bright deity!
Worshipp'd thee as a sacred thing
Of Genius' high imagining;
But loved thee for thy sweet revealing
Of woman's own most gentle feeling.
I might have broken from the chain
Thy power, thy glory round me flung!
But never might forget thy blush-
The smile which on thy sweet lips hung!
I lived but in thy sight! One night
From thy hair fell a myrtle blossom;
It was a relic that breathed of thee:
Look! it has wither'd in my bosom!
Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt
In the sweet sight of Paradise:

A curse lay on me. But not now,
Thus smiled upon by those dear eyes,
Will I think over thoughts of pain.
I'll only tell thee that the line
That ever told Love's misery,
Ne'er told of misery like mine!
I wedded. I could not have borne

To see the young IANTHE blighted
By that worst blight the spring can know-
Trusting affection ill requited!
O, was it that she was too fair,

Too innocent for this damp earth;
And that her native star above

Reclaim'd again its gentle birth ?
She faded. O, my peerless queen,
I need not pray thee pardon me
For owning that my heart then felt
For any other than for thee!
I bore her to those azure isles

Where health dwells by the side of spring;
And deem'd their green and sunny vales,
And calm and fragrant airs, might bring
Warmth to the cheek, light to the eye,
Of her who was too young to die.
It was in vain!-and, day by day
The gentle creature died away.
As parts the odour from the rose-
As fades the sky at twilight's close-
She past so tender and so fair;

So patient, though she knew each breath Might be her last; her own mild smile

Parted her placid lips in death. Her grave is under southern skies; Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. O! nothing but a pale spring wreath Would fade o'er her who lies beneath! I gave her prayers-I gave her tearsI staid awhile beside her grave; Then led by Hope, and led by Love, Again I cut the azure wave. What have I more to say, my life! But just to pray one smile of thine, Telling I have not loved in vainThat thou dost join these hopes of mine?

Yes, smile, sweet love! our life will be

As radiant as a fairy tale !
Glad as the sky-lark's earliest song-
Sweet as the sigh of the spring gale!
All, all that life will ever be,
Shone o'er, divinest love! by thee..

O, mockery of happiness

Love now was all too late to save. False Love! O what had you to do With one you had led to the grave? A little time I had been glad To mark the paleness on my cheek;

To feel how, day by day, my step
Grew fainter, and my hand more weak
To know the fever of my soul

Was also preying on my frame:
But now I would have given worlds
To change the crimson hectic's flame
For the pure rose of health; to live
For the dear life that Love could give.
-0, youth may sicken at its bloom,
And wealth and fame pray for the tomb ;-
But can love bear from love to part,
And not cling to that one dear heart?
I shrank away from death, my tears
Had been unwept in other years :-
But thus, in love's first ecstasy.
Was it not worse than death to die?
LORENZO! I would live for thee!
But thou wilt have to weep for me!
That sun has kiss'd the morning dews,-

I shall not see its twilight close!
That rose is fading in the noon,
And I shall not outlive that rose!
Come, let me lean upon thy breast,
My last, best place of happiest rest!
Once more let me breathe thy sighs-
Look once more in those watching eyes!
O! but for thee, and grief of thine,
And parting, I should not repine!
It is deep happiness to die,
Yet live in Love's dear memory.
Thou wilt remember me, my name
Is link'd with beauty and with fame.
The summer airs, the summer sky,
The soothing spell of Music's sigh,-
Stars in their poetry of night,
The silver silence of moonlight,-

The dim blush of the twilight hours,
The fragrance of the bee-kiss'd flowers :-
But, more than all, sweet songs will be
Thrice sacred unto Love and me.
LORENZO! be this kiss a spell!

My first!-my last! FAREWELL! - FAREWELL!

THERE is a lone and stately hall,

Its master dwells apart from all.

A wanderer through Italia's land,

One night a refuge there I found. The lightning flash roll'd o'er the sky, The torrent rain was sweeping round: These won me entrance. He was young, The castle's lord, but pale like age; His brow, as sculpture beautiful, Was wan as Grief's corroded page, He had no words, he had no smiles, No hopes: his sole employ to brood Silently over his sick heart In sorrow and in solitude. I saw the hall where, day by day, He mused his weary life away; It scarcely seem'd a place for wo, But rather like a genie's home. Around were graceful statues ranged, And pictures shone around the dome. But there was one-a loveliest one!One picture brightest of all there! O! never did the painter's dream Shape thing so gloriously fair! It was a face!--the summer day Is not more radiant in its light! Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars Lighting the azure brow of night; A blush like sunrise o'er the rose;

A cloud of raven hair, whose shade Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls Cluster'd beneath a laurel braid. She leant upon a harp:-one hand Wander'd, like snow, amid the chords; The lips were opening with such life, You almost heard the silvery words. She look'd a form of light and life,All soul, all passion, and all fire;

A priestess of Apollo's, when

The morning beams fall on her lyre;

A Sappho, or ere love had turn'd
The heart to stone where once it burn'd.

But by the picture's side was placed
A funeral urn, on which was traced
The heart's recorded wretchedness ;-
And on a tablet, hung above,
Was 'graved one tribute of sad words-
"LORENZO TO HIS MINSTREL LOVE."

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