GERTRUDE.

LINES

ON RECEIVING THE PICTURE OF GERTRUDE, A YOUNG AND

UNFORTUNATE POETESS.

Io sono, io son ben dessa! or vedi come

M'ha cangiata il dolor fiero ed atroce

Ch' a fatica la voce

Puo di me dar la conoscenza vera.

VITTORIA COLONNA.

And art thou, fair one, thus so desolate ?

Of friends and hopes bereft? thy young love spurned?
Thy crushed affections thrown back on thy heart,
To wither and decay like autumn's leaves?

'Tis thou! those eyes that darkly seem to glow,
Those lips, those sable curls, that lofty brow,
And mien, and lineaments are all thine own,
Though sadly changed; the vermeil blush is gone,
And that soft smile of buoyancy and glee,
That tell the maiden's heart is light and free.-
'Tis thou! I saw thee in youth's giddy hours,

When thou wast bright as morning's opening flowers

In dewy May—when from those languid eyes
Bright genius flashed, and hope's sweet fantasies,

And holy thought, and dreams of earthly bliss

Each feature kindled into loveliness.

And I have seen thee in the gorgeous hall,
The cynosure of the gay festival;

That snowy brow with rosy chaplets bound,
That graceful form amidst the dance float round,
While music all thy soul's high feelings woke,
And from those eyes thought eloquently spoke;
When all that smiles on earth or wakens love-
The Naiad's notes, the warblings of the grove,
The voice of spring, the mellow tones of even,
The breeze of summer, and the airs of heaven,
The leaping rill that laughed along its way,
Found a soft echo in thy gushing lay.

But oh, how changed! it breathes no more of streams,

And groves, and fairy sprites, and youth's bright dreams;

Love's doleful requiem, hope's funeral knell,

Are now the only music of thy shell.

That mien is sad, those cheeks are pale with care

Ah! bitter tears and sorrow have been there

Those eyes now tell a dark and mournful tale
Of wrong and scorn, and thy young spirit's wail,
And unrequited love-dear hopes long hushed
Within thy breast-thy heart's best feelings crushed.

Time hath not on that brow etched many years,
But grief hath marked on it deep characters
Of inward wretchedness. Calmness is there,
But 'tis the calm that rises from despair-
The fixedness the features still assume

When hope and love no more our path illume,
And the embittered spirit doth await

With patience life's inevitable fate.

Thy grief is deeper far than speech portrays,
And yet upon that brow I love to gaze;
So much is beaming in that pensive face,
Which wrong and sorrow never can efface;
So much of meekness, and of purity,

And chastened thought, and sacred fantasy

Are there, and Poesy's undying fire,

That thrill my soul, and lofty thoughts inspire;

And though from thee life's brightest spells have fled,

Love's halo circles not the false one's head;