So rarely were they raised. His mother's love Was for her other children: they were fair, And had health's morning hues and sunny looks. She had not seen him, when he watch'd the sun Setting at eve, like an idolater,
Until his cheek grew crimson in the light Of the all-radiant heaven, and his eyes Were passionately eloquent, all fill'd
His pencil call'd to life. But as his thoughts Took wider range, he languish'd to behold More of a world he thought must be so fair, So fill'd with glorious shapes. It chanced that he Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness, Came to the convent; with rejoicing wonder He mark'd how like an unknown mine, whose gold
With earth's most glorious feelings. And his Gathers in silence, had young Guido's mind
A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain side Listening its low and melancholy song. Or wander through the gardens silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood. And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich thoughts
That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad Even that desolate city, whose dim towers, Ruins, and palaces, seem as they look'd Back on departed time. Then in the gloom Of his own convent's silent burying ground, Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses mourn'd, He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day- dreams,
Not so much hopes as fancies. Then at eve, When through the painted windows the red sun Rainbow'd the marble floor with radiant hues, Where spread the ancient church's stately arch, He stay'd, till the deep music of the hymn, Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes, Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell He went, and through the casement's iron bars The moon look'd on him, tenderly as Love, Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours Would Guido, in the fulness of his heart, Kneel, watching till he wept. The subject was A dying Magdalene. Her long black hair
Increased in lonely richness; every day New veins of splendid thought sprang into life. And Guido left his convent cell with one Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes Of marvel and enchantment. And then first Did Guido feel how very precious praise Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers, Ripening them into fruit. And time pass'd on ;- The lonely and neglected child became One whom all Rome was proud of, and he dwelt There in the sunshine of his spreading fame. There was a melancholy beauty shed Over his pictures, as the element In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love He made most lovely, but yet ever sad; Passionate partings, such as wring the heart Till tears are lifeblood; meetings, when the cheek
Has lost all hope of health in the long parting; The grave, with one mourning in solitude: These made his fame, and were his excellence,- The painter of deep tears. He had just gain'd The summer of his glory and of his days, When his remembering art was call'd to give A longer memory to one whose life Was but a thread. Her history may be told In one word-love. And what has love e'er been But misery to woman? Still she wish'd- It was a dying fancy which betray'd
How much, though known how false its god had been,
Her soul clung to its old idolatry, - To send her pictured semblance to the false one. She hoped-how love will hope!-it might recall The young and lovely girl his cruelty Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake Those thousand fond and kind remembrances
Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand Which he had utterly abandon'd, while Pillow'd a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce
The blue light of the eyes was visible
For the death dampness on the darken'd lids ;- As one more effort to look on the cross, Which seem'd just falling from the fainting arm, And they would close forever. In that look
There was a painter's immortality,
And Guido felt it deeply, for a gift
The true heart he had treasured next his own A little time, had never ceased to beat For only him, until it broke, She leant Beside a casement when first Guido look'd Upon her wasted beauty. "Twas the brow, The Grecian outline in its perfect grace, That he had learnt to worship in his youth, By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face
Like his whose work that was, was given him,- Was yet a treasure in his memory;
A gift of beauty and of power, and soon
He lived but in the exquisite creations
But sunken were the temples, they had lost
Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day
The veins shone through them, shaded by the Simple morality spoke in those hands, braids, Going their way in silence, till a sound, Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time, Where grief's white traces mock'd at youth. A And the hour spoke its only warning!-Strange flush, To note how mute the soft song of the wren, As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her Whose nest was in that old elm tree, became cheek,
Then linger'd there forever, look'd like health Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip; Like the rich crimson of the evening sky, Brightest when night is coming. Guido took Just one slight sketch; next morning she was dead!
When the clock struck: and when it ceased again, Its music like a natural anthem breathed. Lowly the osier'd graves around, wild flowers Their epitaph, and not one monument Was there rich with the sculptor's graceful art. There sat one, by a grave whose weeded turf Show'd more than common care, his face bent down,
A fine and manly brow, though sun and wind Had darken'd it, and that a shade of grief Seem'd natural from long habit; by his side A little laughing child, with clear blue eyes, Cheek like a dimpled rose, and sunny curls, Was gathering blossoms, gathering but to crush, Till the sod was all colours with the leaves. Even in childhood's innocence of pleasure Lives that destroying spirit which in time Will waste, then want, the best of happiness. I mark'd the boy's companion: he was yet In life's first summer; and he seem'd to watch With such sad tenderness the child, which came When tired to nestle in his bosom, sure That it was welcome, and the grave was kept So fresh, so green, so cover'd with sweet flowers,
Yet still he painted on, until his heart Grew to the picture, it became his world,- He lived but in its beauty, made his art Sacred to it alone. No more he gave To the glad canvass green and summer dreams Of the Italian valleys; traced no more The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, look'd And caught the spirit of fine poetry From glorious statues: these were pass'd away. Shade after shade, line after line, each day Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt In intense worship on his own creation, Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night- The portrait was just finish'd, save a touch, A touch to give the dark light of the eyes- He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his I deem'd 'twas some young widower, whose love
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd That a fair creature came and kiss'd his brow, And bade him follow her: he knew the look, And rose. Awakening, he found himself Kneeling before the portrait :-'twas so fair He deem'd it lived, and press'd his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,- Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!
To that which once it loved, with the same feeling That makes the traveller turn from his way To look upon some boyish haunt, though dark And very desolate grown, no longer like That which was dear to him.
Had pass'd away, or ever it had known One sting of sorrow or one cloud of care,- Pass'd in its first delicious confidence
Of vow'd affection;-'twas the grave, I thought, Of his young wife, and that the child was left A dear memorial of that cherish'd one. I read his history wrong. In early youth, When hopes and pleasures flit like butterflies Around our pleasant spring, had Edward loved, And sought in Marion's deep blue eyes his world,--
Loved with the truth, the fervour of first love, That delicate bloom which can come o'er the soul But only once. All other thoughts and feelings The heart may know again, but first love never! Its hopes, bright as the azure flower that springs Where'er the radiance of the rainbow falls; Its fears, soft as the leaves that shade the lily; Its fairyland romance, its tenderness
Its timid, and yet passionate devotion
These are not annual blooms, that die, then rise Again into another summer world.
It was a low white church: the elm which They may live long, and be the life of life,
Beside it shadow'd half the roof; the clock
Was placed where full the sunbeams fell ;-what deep,
But, like the rose, when they are once destroy'd They perish utterly. And, like that tree, How sweet a memory, too, remains! though dead The green leaves, and decay'd the stem, yet still
The spirit of fragrance lingers, loath to leave Its dear abode. Just so love haunts the heart, Though wither'd, and to be revived no more. O, nothing has the memory of love!
It was a summer twilight; crimson lights Play'd o'er the bridal bowers of the west, And in the gray horizon the white moon Was faintly visible, just where the sky Met the green rolling of the shadowy sea. Upon a little hill, whose broken ridge Was cover'd with the golden furze, and heath Gay with its small pink blossoms, in a shade Form'd of thick hazels and the graceful sweep Of the ash-boughs, an old beach-trunk the seat, With a sweet canopy of honeysuckle Mix'd with the wild briar-roses, Edward sat, Happy, for Marion lean'd upon his bosom In the deep fondness of the parting hour; One of those partings memory will keep Among its precious things. The setting sun Shed such rich colour o'er the cheek, which press'd
Closer and closer, like a rose, that sought A shelter next his heart; the radiant eyes,
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To have one lonely treasure, which the heart Can feed upon in secret, which can be A star in sorrow, and a flower in joy; A thought to which all other thoughts refer; A hope, from whence all other hopes arise, Nursed in the solitude of happiness! Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is To have the bosom made a Paradise
By thee-life lighted by thy rainbow smile! Edward lived in one feeling, one that made Care, toil, and suffering pleasant, and he hail'd
Glorious as though the sky's own light were there, England, dear England, happy in success,
Yet timid, blue, and tender as the dove's; The soft arm thrown around his neck; the hair Falling in such profusion o'er a face
That nestled like a bird upon his breast. Murmurs, the very breath of happiness; Low and delighted sighs, and lengthen'd looks, As life were looking words inaudible, Yet full of music; whispers such as are What love should ever speak in, soft yet deep, As jealous even that the air should share In the delicious feeling. And around, All seem'd the home and atmosphere of love: The air sweet with the woodbine and the The rich red light of evening; the far sea, So still, so calm; the vale, with its corn-fields Shooting their green spears 'mid the scarlet banners
Of the wild poppies; meadows with the hay Scatter'd in fragrance, clover yet uncut. And in the distance a small wood, where oaks And elms threw giant shadows; and a river Winding, now hidden and now visible, Till close beside their bower it held its course, And fed a little waterfall, the harp
That answer'd to the woodlark's twilight hymn. Their last, last evening! Ah, the many vows That Edward and his Marion pledged! She took A golden ring and broke it, hid one-half Next her own heart, then cut a shining curl, As bright as the bright gift, and round his neck Fasten'd the silken braid, and bade him keep
The ring and hair for Marion's sake. They talk'd
In hope, and love. It was a summer morn- The very season he had left that vale- When he return'd. How cheerfully the fields, Spread in their green luxuriance of corn, The purple clover, and the newcut hay, Loading the air with fragrance! the soft river Winding so gently! there seem'd nothing changed, And Edward's heart was fill'd with gladness: all, He fancied, look'd as if they welcomed him. His eyes fill'd with sweet tears, and hasty words Of love and thankfulness caine to his lips. His path lay through the churchyard, and the
Were ringing for a wedding. What fond thoughts They waken'd, of how merrily their round Would peal for him and Marion! He kiss'd The broken ring, the braid of golden hair, And bounded, with light step and lighter heart Across the churchyard; from it he could see The cottage where his own true maiden dwelt. Just then the bridal party left the church, And, half unconsciously, young Edward look'd Upon the bride-that bride was Marion! He stopp'd not in the village, spoke to none,— But went again to sea; and never smile Lighted the settled darkness in his eyes: His cheek grew pale, his hair turn'd gray, his
Became so sad and low. He once had loved To look upon the sunset, as that hour Brought pleasant memories, such as feed sweet
Now ever gazed he on it with the look
Of the young widow over her fair child,
Her only child, in the death agony.
His heart was wither'd. Yet, although so false, He never parted with his Marion's gift:
Still the soft curl and the bright ring were kept, Like treasures, in his bosom. Years pass'd by, And he grew tired of wandering; back he came To his own village, as a place of rest. 'Twas a drear autumn morning, and the trees Were bare, or cover'd but with yellow leaves; The fields lay fallow, and a drizzling rain Fell gloomily: it seem'd as all was changed, Even as he himself was changed; the bell Of the old church was tolling dolefully The farewell of the living to the dead. The grave was scant, the holy words were said Hurriedly, coldly: but for a poor child, That begg'd the pit to give him back his mother, There had not been one single tear. The boy Kept on his wail; but all his prayers were made To the dark tomb, as conscious those around Would chide if he ask'd them; and when they threw
The last earth on the coffin, down he laid His little head, and sobb'd most bitterly. And Edward took him in his arms, and kiss'd His wet pale cheeks; while the child clung to him,
Not with the shyness of one petted, loved, And careless of a stranger's fond caress, But like one knowing well what kindness was, But knew not where to seek it, as he pined Beneath neglect and harshness, fear and want. 'Twas strange, this mingling of their destinies : That boy was Marion's-it was Marion's grave! She had died young, and poor, and broken-hearted. Her husband had deserted her: one child
Was buried with its mother, one was left An orphan unto chance; but Edward took The boy unto him even as his own. He buried the remembrance of his wrongs, Only recalling that he once had loved, And that his love was dead.
Now, Maiden, wilt thou come with me, Far over yonder moonlight sea ? There's not a cloud upon the sky, The wind is low like thine own sigh; The azure heaven is vein'd with light The water is as calm and bright As I have sometimes seen it lie Beneath a sunny Indian sky.
My bark is on the ocean riding, Like a spirit o'er it gliding; Maiden, wilt thou come and be Queen of my fair ship and me?
She follow'd him. The sweet night breeze Brought odours from the orange trees,- She paused not for their fragrant sigh: There came a sound of music nigh, A voice of song, a distant chime To mark the vespers' starry time,- She heard it not the moonbeams fell O'er vine-wreath'd hill and olive dell, With cottages, and their gay show Of roses for a portico;
One which stood by a beech alone,- Look'd she not back upon that one? Alas! she look'd but in that eye Where now was writ her destiny. The heart love leaves looks back ever; The heart where he is dwelling, never. Yet as her last step left the strand, Gheraldi then might feel her hand Grow cold, and tremble in his own: He watch'd her lip, its smile was flown; Her cheek was pale, as if with fears; Her blue eyes darken'd with their tears: He prest her rosebud mouth to his, Blush, smile, return'd to grace that kiss; She had not power to weep, yet know She was his own, come weal come wo. O, who-reposed on some fond breast, Love's own delicious place of rest- Reading faith in the watching eyes, Feeling the heart beat with its sighs, Could no regrets, or doubts, or cares, That we had bound our fate with theirs!
There was a shadow on their mirth; A vacant place is by their hearth, When at the purple evening's close Around its firelight gather'd those
With whom her youth's sweet course had
Wept, for the lost, the alter'd one! She was so beautiful, so dear,
All that the heart holds precious here! A skylark voice, whose lightest sound So glad made every heart-pulse bound 'Twas a fair sight to see her glide A constant shadow by the side Of her old Father! At dayrise, With light feet and with sunny eyes, Busy within: and then, at times, Singing old snatches of wild rhymes Italian peasants treasure up, O'erflowings of the poet's cup, Suited to those whose earth and sky, Temples and groves, are poetry.
-But he had yet another child,- The Father Blanche could leave, smiled
Gently and cheerfully away The cloud that on his spirit lay. It was a lovely morn in June, And in the rosy light of noon The olive crown'd village shone As the glad sun were all its own; And, suiting with such golden hours, With music, and with songs and flowers, A bridal train pass'd gayly by: In the midst, with blue downcast eye And blush of happiness, came the Bride! And youths with flutes were by her side, And maidens, with their wreaths, as gay As life but lasted one sweet day.
One follow'd them with bursting heart, With pallid cheek, and lips apart, As every breath were gasp'd! Ah this, Alas, is what love ever is!
False or unhappy, twin to sorrow, Forced Hope's deceiving lights to borrow, Gilding in joy a little way, Doubly to lead the heart astray. Beneath a shadowy beech tree At length paused the gay company: And there sat an old Man. The Bride Took off her veil, and knelt beside, And from his feet look'd up and smiled, And pray'd that he would bless his child! The gentle prayer was scarcely said, Yet lay his hand upon her head ! When knelt another in that place, With shrouded form and veiled face; A broken voice breathed some low words They struck on memory's tenderest chords: "My Blanche! yes, only ask of Heaven, Thy father has long since forgiven. Look up!" "O not till thou hast pray'd For the unhappy and betray'd!" And paused at once the bridal song,
And gather'd round the gazing throng. And as the old man pray'd, Blanche press'd Closer and closer to his breast!
He raised her, for he long'd to gaze Upon the loved of other days,
And threw the veil back from her head, And look'd, but look'd upon the dead!
AND there are bitter tears in Arnold's hall
A wail of passionate lament! The night Is on the towers, but night has not brought Silence and sleep. A sound is in the courts, Of arms and arm'd men; the ring of spears, The stamp of iron feet, and voices, mix'd In deep confusion. With the morning's rise, Lord Arnold leads these men to Palestine.
There were two figures on a terrace, raised O'er all the rest. The moon was on its sweep, Lightning the landscape's midnight loveliness! Below it, first were gardens set with flowers, In beds of many shape and quaint device, So very sweet they fill'd the air with scents; Beyond, the ground was steep and rough; dwarf
Spring on the sides, but all the nobler growth Of those proud trees was seen in yon dark wood, Its world of leaves blent with the distant sky, And sheltering a green park, where the smooth
Was fitting herbage for the gentle fawn, Which sported by its mother's spotted side, And some so white that in the moon they shone Like silver. In the midst, a diamond sheet Of clear bright water spread, and on its breast Gather'd a group of swans; and there was one, Laid on a little island which the leaves Of the waterflag had made; and suddenly A sound of music rose, and leaf and flower Seem'd hush'd to hear the sweet and solemn hymn Sung by the dying swan. And then the two Upon the terrace, who as yet had look'd But in each other's eyes, turn'd to the lake : It was to them, even as if their love Had made itself a voice to breathe Farewell!-
Ceased the unearthly song, and Adeline Threw her on Arnold's breast, and wept, and said It was her warrior's dirge and hers for never Such sad sweet sounds had breathed on mortal
And yet no omen. But her Arnold kiss'd
Her tears away; and whisper'd 'twas the song Of some kind Spirit, who would guard his love While he was fighting for the Cross afar. O, who can tell the broken-heartedness
Of parting moments!-the fond words that gush From the full heart, and yet die in the throat,
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