Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

No breath awakes the drowsy palm,

And all, save sorrow's breast, is calm;
Or the wild beating hearts of lovers,

Who silently along the glades,
Await, beneath the leafy covers,

The footsteps of responding maids,
To breathe to them a last farewell,
Or plight the vows they'll treasure well
If there are moments in this life

When guardian Angels hover near,
Despite of envy, pain, fear, strife—

And dash the cup of grief with cheer-
When to the longing soul is given
A foretaste of the bliss of Heaven,-

It is when young hearts, pure and high,
Meet under Heaven's approving eye,
Afar in some sequestered grove,

Or by some soothing waterfall,

And blend thought, fancy, feeling-all—

In the omnipotence of love.

II.

And wan the mournful maiden now

Across the balmy valley flies,

The cold, damp dew upon her brow,

The hot tears stealing from her eyes

The last that Fate can ever wring

From her young bosom's troubled spring.

Paling, beneath the myrtle, she

Glides onward o'er the moonlit lea

By many a mausoleum speeds,

And tomb, amidst the tuneful reeds,

Yet falters not-she feels no dread
When in the presence of the dead—
Alas! what awe have sepulchres

For hearts that have been dead for years

Dead unto all external things

Dead unto Hope's sweet offerings,
While with its lofty pinions furled,

The spirit floats in neither world.
She gains at length the holy fane,
Where death and solemn silence reign-
Hurries along the shadowy aisles,

Up to the altar where blest tapers

Burn dimly, and the Virgin smiles,

Midst rising clouds of incense vapors—

There kneels by the confession chair, Where waits the friar with fervent prayer,

To soothe the children of despair.

Her hands are clasped her eyes upraised-Meek--beautiful-though coldly glazed,

And her pale cheeks are paling faster; From under her simple hat of straw, Over her neck her tresses flow,

Like threads of jet o'er alabaster,From which the envious dews of night Have stolen half their glossy light.

III.

"Father! invoke of Heaven the aid
And pardon for a dying maid-
Peace for a soul that finds no rest,
Nor craves it now but with the blest.

The light is fading from mine eye,

An icy chill is at my heart,

The time hath come for me to die—
But ere my spirit hence shall fly,

A tale of woe I would impart,

Which I would have thee breathe to none,

But GAMBA's ear when I am gone.

My home is o'er the deep blue sea,

Where love and beauty are divine—

Our being-breath-eternity,

I am a hapless Florentine, Of noble birth and title highBut mine was a false deity,

Worshipped too early and too well—

It fled, but left its fatal spell

Alas! how fatal, these pale cheeks may tell !

"Mine is no tale of murder dire, Committed in revengeful ire,

And woman's fit of frenzy brief,

But one of deep, enduring grief,
That fosters enmity for none-

If so dark deeds I might have done;
For I have watched, full many an hour,
GAMBA, reposing in his bower,

And stood beside the couch of her,
Who made this heart a sepulchre ;

And might have shorn her thread of life-
Perchance have been my GAMBA's wife!
But, in my heart arose no strife-

My sin hath been to love too well—
To cherish hope I could not quell.

"Words are too weak to tell to thee,

Father my young heart's dream of bliss

It was a holy fantasy,

Sent down from other worlds to this,

To win my spirit from frail toys

Encircle it with heavenly joys

A lovely-blest-eternal ray,

Extinguishing each lesser light, As the effulgent god of day

Eclipses all the stars of night.

All treachery from my soul was hidden,
And earth lay beautiful as Eden,
That is, if I could ken beyond

The realm of my own loving heart,
Where GAMBA's image, dear and fond,
And bright, illumined every part,
And drew my young enraptured thought
From all it ever loved or sought.

I took no pleasure in my lute

It hung, for aye, unstrung and mute,

Save when it woke for GAMBA's ear
The themes that Love delights to hear:

I gazed no more on the blue sky,
Drinking ethereal minstrelsy,

As was my wont in days gone by;

My Amaranths to ruin run

My pencil, that renown had won

And high applause, now traced no line,

But GAMBA's face and form divine.

I placed his picture on the wall,

Where RAPHAEL'S sainted MARY hung,

« FöregåendeFortsätt »