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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!



The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,

And lov'd when they should hate,—like thee, Imelda ! 4

Italy, a Poem.

Passa la bella Donna, e par che dorma.


WE have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars ;--this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,

Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,
Up thro' the shadowy grass, the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
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
Lay deep, and heavy drops-but not of rain-
On the dim violets by its marble bed,

And the pale shining water-lily's head.

Sad is that legend's truth.—A fair girl met

7 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


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 caught→→
Was 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 fatal night

That night Imelda's voice was in the song,
Lovely it floated thro' the festive throng,
· Peopling her father's halls.
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies,

A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Follow'd her form beneath the clear lamp's blaze,
And marvell'd at its radiance. But a few
Beheld the brightness of that feverish hue,
With something of dim fear; and in that glance
Found strange and sudden tokens of unrest,
Startling to meet amidst the mazy dance,

Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
Comes not unmask'd. Howe'er this were, the time
Sped as it speeds with joy, and grief, and crime
Alike and when the banquet's hall was left
Unto its garlands of their bloom bereft,

When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again

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