X.

"Oh, GAMBA ! why this inward strife?"
Weeping, she said, "my light, my life!
Why sternly-coldly shrink from me,
As from a hateful enemy?

What have I done to grieve thy heart?

To cause thy thoughts from me to rove?

Can I no more inspire thy love?

Flown from me all is beauty's art ?

Am I less gentle-loving now,

Than when Heaven sealed our nuptial vow?

Less truthful-trustful unto thee ?

Less happy in thy company?

I've followed thee along the glade,

Where sleeps the Gipsy minstrel maid

Have watched thee by the brink and stream,

And heard thee murmur in thy dream

'O ISABELLE !-O ISABELLE !'—

And down before the Virgin fell—
And prayed for power my fears to quell !
Oh dost thou still refuse to wake

The inward woes thy mien declares ?
Wilt thou leave this fond heart to break
Beneath this weight of wasting cares?

I could bear wrong-disgrace and pain—
Life's direst racks of heart and brain-
All other desperate freaks of Fate-
But never, GAMBA, brook thy hate!
I've knelt at the confession chair,
Nor solace gained from priest nor prayer-
Here kneeling crave to know thy grief—
Oh, break, or give this heart relief!

If this is frenzy-be it so,

I cannot conquer all this woe-
This holy love, that from the first
Burned with a never-quenching thirst!
Nor will I murmur at my fate-
I may, perchance, deserve thy hate;
Yes! if 'tis guilt to win the heart

Of one so dear, by any art

And still to love, so pure and well—

Then guilt is mine more black than heil,

And this is but just punishment

By righteous Heaven upon me sent!"

XI.

"LEILA, my dear-devoted friend,

Being in whom all virtues blend,

Pardon the pangs thy breast I've given-For me, Oh! waft thy prayers to Heaven!

I need them much-the peace—the rest
That never more may seek this breast-
This gnawing grief-this deep distress-
Is not from any act of thine-

Neither because I prize thee less

Than when Heaven linked thy fate to mine-

But Oh! forgive the guilt I'd smother-

This heart was plighted to another!
For whom I deemed affection flown,
Before I made thee all mine own--
But I have learned by suffering long,
And anguish all for words too strong,
And my sad spirit's ceaseless moan,
That we can love but once-and one-
All other is reflected light--

Such as illumes the queen of night.

The minstrel maid whose melody

Three weary years, entranced this dell,

Was my affianced ISABELLE

A daughter of the Tuscan sky--
The fairest maid beneath the sun,
Whose hand I early sought and won-
Upon it placed this glittering token
Of vows that I have basely broken ;-
She hither came, poor girl, to sigh
Her heart away--near me to die,

Unknown to all save the old friar,
Who bore this ring to me by her desire-
Tidings that brain-heart-soul did fire!

"She might have been to kings allied-
But this forbore to be my bride-

She might have been beloved and cherished-
But for my sake, she pined and perished-
A minstrel poor-on INDIA's shore

Singing for bread from door to door.

"Whilom along the ARNO's side,

We wandered oft at eventide,

She gazing on the glowing skies,
And I into her laughing eyes;

And there, when Angels watched above,

I told to her my burning love.

I have no power--no words to tell
How much I loved young ISABELLE.
She was the Angel of my youth——
The paragon of love and truth-
The child of art and minstrelsy-

All light-all loveliness to me,

And Oh! that she should dare the surf

Repose upon the chilling turf

Three weary years

In pain and tears

For me, who could betray her trust-
O God! O God! thy wrath is just !

"I know not why

Tears filled mine eye,

Whene'er for me she woke her lyre-
Its every tone was fraught with fire,
That made life's sluggish current start,
And boil along my every vein,
Up to the caverns of the brain,
Then left it freezing round my heart.

Ever upon its mournful swell

Came thoughts to me of ISABELLE
Beauty and Love—and Italy—
And of my hideous perfidy.

Mine eyes have hung upon her form,
As held by some unearthly charm;
I've stood beneath the burning sky,
And drank her matchless minstrelsy-
Have lain at noon of night and wept,
While through my lattice lone it swept-
Lone as some fallen spirit's chime--

Sad as the funeral dirge of Time.