Did GUIDO feel how very precious praise
Is to young genius,-like sunlight on flowers,
Ripening them into fruit. And time passed on ;—
The lonely and neglected child became
One whom all Rome was proud of, for she gave,
At once, birth to his fame, and to himself.
There was a melancholy beauty shed
Over his pictures, as the element
In which his genius shed was sorrow.
He made most lovely, but yet ever sad;
Passionate partings, such as wring the heart
Till tears are life-blood; meetings, when the cheek
Has lost all hope of health in the long parting;
The grave, with one mourning in solitude;
These made his fame, and were his excellence,-
The painter of deep tears. He had just gained
The summer of his glory and of his days,
When his remembering art was called to give
A longer memory to one whose life
Was but a thread. Her history may be told
In one word-love. And what has love e'er been
But misery to woman? Still she wished-
It was a dying fancy which betrayed
How much, though known how false its god had been,
Her soul clung to its old idolatry,—
To send her pictured semblance to the false one.
She hoped-how love will hope!—it might recall
The young and lovely girl his cruelty
Had worn to this dim shadow,-it might wake
Those thousand fond and kind remembrances
Which he had utterly abandoned, while
The true heart he had treasured next his own
A little time, had never ceased to beat
For only him, until it broke. She leant
Beside a casement when first GUIDO looked
Upon her wasted beauty. 'Twas the brow,
The Grecian outline in its perfect grace,
That he had learned to worship in his youth,
By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face
Was yet a treasure in his memory;
But sunken were the temples,-they had lost
Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day
The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids,
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair,
Where grief's white traces mocked at youth. A flush,
As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek,
Then lingered there for ever, looked like health
Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip,
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky,
Brightest when night is coming. GUIDO took
Just one slight sketch; next morning she was dead!
Yet still he painted on, until his heart
Grew to the picture :-it became his world,
He lived but in its beauty, made his heart
Sacred to it alone. No more he gave
To the glad canvass green and summer dreams
Of the Italian valleys; traced no more
The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, looked
And caught the spirit of fine poetry
From glorious statues :-these were passed away.
Shade after shade, line after line, each day
Gave life to the sweet likeness. GUIDO dwelt
In intense worship on his own creation,
Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew,
And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night-
The portrait was just finished, save a touch,
A touch to give the dark light of the eyes-
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand
Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dreamt
That a fair creature came and kissed his brow,
And bade him follow her: he knew the look,
And rose. Awakening, he found himself
Kneeling before the portrait !-'twas so fair,
He deemed it lived, and pressed his burning lips
To the sweet mouth; his soul passed in that kiss,-
Young GUIDO died beside his masterpiece!
TEN years ago ten years ago—
Life was to us a fairy scene;
And the keen blasts of worldly woe
Had sered not then its pathway green;
Youth and its thousand dreams were ours,—
Feelings we ne'er can know again,—
Unwithered hopes-unwasted powers,
And frames unworn by mortal pain ;-
Such was the bright and genial flow
Of life with us ten years ago!
Time has not blanched a single hair,
That clusters round thy forehead now;
Nor hath the cankering touch of Care
Left even one furrow on thy brow;
Thine eyes are blue as when we met,
In love's deep truth in earlier years;
Thy cheek of rose is blooming yet,
Though somewhat stained by secret tears;— But where, oh where's the spirit's glow That shone through all—ten years ago?
I too am changed-I scarce know why ;-
Can feel each flagging pulse decay,
And youth, and health, and visions high
Melt like a wreath of snow away!—
Time cannot sure have wrought the ill!
Though worn in this world's sickening strife,
In soul and form-I linger still
In the first summer month of life;
Yet journey on my path below
Oh! how unlike-ten years ago!
But look not thus-I would not give
The wreck of hopes that thou must share,
To bid those joyous hours revive,
When all around me seemed so fair!
We've wandered on in sunny weather,
When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together,
And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom, Endeared by ties we could not know
When life was young,-ten years ago!
Has fortune frowned? Her frowns were vain!
For hearts like ours she could not chill.
Have friends proved false? Their love might wane!
But ours grew fonder, firmer, still.
Twin barks on this world's changing wave,
Stedfast in calms-in tempests tried
In concert still our fate we'll brave;
Together cleave life's fitful tide,
Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow,
Youth's first wild dreams-ten years ago
Have we not knelt beside his bed,
And watched our first-born blossom die? Hoped-till the shade of hope had fled, Then wept till feeling's fount was dry? Was it not sweet, in that dark hour
To think-mid mutual tears and sighsOur bud had left its earthly bower
And burst to bloom in Paradise?
What to the thought that soothed that woe
Were heartless joys-ten years ago?
Yes, it is sweet, when Heaven is bright,
To share its sunny beams with thee!
But sweeter far, 'mid clouds and blight,
To have thee near to weep with me.
Then dry those tears though something changed
From what we were in earlier youth,
Time that hath friends and hopes estranged,
Hath left us love in all its truth ;-
Sweet feelings we would not forego
For life's best joys-ten years ago!
SENT WITH AN HOUR GLASS TO A LADY ON NEW
YES all things fade away
That the soul cherishes and seeks on earth;—
Fair flowers! that do but bloom their summer's day,
And are forgot their being and their birth.
Youth hath its favoured hour,
Of fancies, and high hopes, and dazzling dreams;
It flies and with it all the glittering dower
That to young bosoms the securest seems!
And Manhood's hour comes next,
Fevered and filled with the world's active thought; Schemes, and ambitions ;-till the spirit vexed,— Finds that its hour hath fled and left it nought!
Shortest and last is thine,
Wasted in vain regrets and memories-Age!
For while thy retrospects too brightly shine,
The sand ebbs out-so doth thy pilgrimage!
Thus pleasure hath its hour!
And grief, and pain, and peril have no more;
Hatred, and love, but the same transient power,
Time but remains ruling as heretofore!
On-conqueror of the earth!
And fold not yet thy world-destroying wing!
Still reign-while scattering man's work and worth,
Omnipotent! o'er each created thing!
Thy end will come, Oh Time!
When thou, a conqueror shalt conquered be;
Thyself, thy victories, and thy power sublime,
No more remembered-in Eternity!
Leeds Intelligencer.
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