TASSO AND HIS SISTER.

"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie."

Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd

The citron's breath went by;

While the deep gold of eventide

Burn'd in the Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose

To the high vineyards round.

But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song, and dancing glee,
Hush'd as by words of power.
With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd
Up to their mother's face;

With brows through parting ringlets rais'd,
They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread-
Forth from a poet's magic book

The glorious numbers read;
The proud, undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years;

*

His of the gifted Pen and Sword,*
The triumph and the tears.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear,
Sung on her glittering seas at night,
By many a gondolier;

*It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, Young holy hearts were stirr'd;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet each pause between ;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd-a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud, yet restless eye.

But drops that would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gush'd free,
As, pressing his pale brow, he cried,
"Forgotten! e'en by thee!

"Am I so chang'd ?—and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'd— This brow hath been all bath'd in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made.
We have knelt down and said one prayer,

And sang one vesper strain—
My thoughts are dim with clouds of care-
Tell me those words again!

"Life hath been heavy on my head;
I come, a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here."

-She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame-

She fell upon his neck, and wept,
And breath'd her brother's name.

Her brother's name !-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?

-He was the bard of gifts divine,

Το the hearts of men ; sway He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen !