No breath awakes the drowsy palm, And all, save sorrow's breast, is calm; Who silently along the glades, The footsteps of responding maids, When guardian Angels hover near, And dash the cup of grief with cheer- It is when young hearts, pure and high, 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 For hearts that have been dead for years Dead unto all external things Dead unto Hope's sweet offerings, The spirit floats in neither world. 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 The light is fading from mine eye, An icy chill is at my heart, The time hath come for me to die— 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, If so dark deeds I might have done; And stood beside the couch of her, And might have shorn her thread of life- My sin hath been to love too well— "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, The realm of my own loving heart, I took no pleasure in my lute It hung, for aye, unstrung and mute, Save when it woke for GAMBA's ear I gazed no more on the blue sky, 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, |