And ready there my bark shall be, To some bright land afar to dwell— "Must-must we part ?"-the pallid maid Raised her dark eyes and trembling said, "Oh! I would rather die to-night, Than thou should'st leave one hour my sight. I fear the guilt-I feel the woe, To love thee 'gainst my father's will; He bids me swear it to forego I swear, and doubly love thee still. Whate'er the ills with which we cope. My sire betrothed me to another, Loved Leon! I shall ne'er be thine He will not sleep till I be wed To Leonardo-or am dead. Oh! must thou go ? Will the dark sea, Dear LEON! give thee back to me ?. "O FLORENCE! fairest ! speak not thus The grave alone can sever us ; My journey shall be brief, and then I will not part from thee again, Nor now in soul: as o'er his track The Hadji's spirit stealeth back To worship still at Mecca's shrine, So, wandering o'er the dark blue sea, When thou art singing in the grove, Then hovering nigh my soul shall be, When evening shade the green earth dims, And save thee, loveliest one, from harm." He said, and as quick tears did start, And overrun each silken lid, He clasped her sobbing to his heart, While down his cheeks the bright drops slid. To hearts wrapt in such holy dream, Ages could but a moment seem ; So lost to every thing around, They might not hear the earthquake's sound. Around his neck her white arms wreathed- Save that at intervals they breathed, As sympathy their bosoms heaved,— One looking on would have believed Sculptor had wrought with strictest care: And from the hallowed spell he started, As at the tread of arméd men, One long embrace-and then they parted To meet-but never thus again. CANTO II. THE DETECTION-THE PROMISE-THE MURDER. I. THERE are some men and women born With young volcanoes in their hearts, Which from their craters ne'er are torn, Nor curbed by ethics, nor by arts. But, like Vesuvius, for some reason Inexplicable, have their season, By Nature's Telegraphic wires, Of throwing off their lava fires ;And of this class, erratic, wild, Was UGO's rare and radiant child. Flung back her long, rich, raven hair, Pale as a statue of despair Her small hands clasped, her lips apart, The maiden lists her lover dart Along the silent corridor, Descend the terrace to the shore, Leap lightly down into his boat, Lying beneath the mossy moat, And dash adown the yellow tide The saints be praised! he's safe!" she sighed Then reeling upon the divan sunk, And from the Bacchanalian cup, Cupid for her had just filled up, But in this world the scenes must shift,- Nor Love by Truth the oftenest crowned- II. A voice of thunder shakes the Castle- Urged to the scent by slave and vassal. A hand upon the yielding door- "Arise! thou fair dissembler, rise! Fierce hissing through his teeth, he cries- |