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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,
Flinging a vein of silver o'er the scene,
The rich wild flowers no tale of wo or death;
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain
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,
But change came o'er the scene. A hurrying tread
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled
Up where the cedars make yon avenue
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught→→
Struck down her lip's rich crimson as it pass'd,
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast
That fatal night
That night Imelda's voice was in the song,
A burning, ruby cloud. There were, whose gaze
Where thought, if present, an unbidden guest,
When trembling stars look'd silvery in their wane, And heavy flowers yet slumber'd, once again