XXXV. Then, in her chamber, as if thrown aside, Perchance forgotten-a scroll met his eye : Confessions poured forth when she could not hide And wild, and passionate, were poetry; All passions in their grandest energy ? The eloquence inspired by Nature—art Never yet felt that glow which springs but from the heart. XXXVI. Man's sterner breast, how little does it know The feelings of the woman! and how less Dare she his strength and all her weakness show! And so an untold world of happiness, Of sympathies which she durst not confess, Die, treasured in her bosom-all her own; But in this scroll, the very nakedness, Of the heart's childish innocence was shown, No mask, no veil to hide-its inmost feelings known. S XXXVII. And the all infantine simplicity Of that untutored bosom! its love dwelling, As if each hour were not its requiem knelling; Ah! love is still its own avenger sure: The heart that slights its pledge doth mourn it ever more. 1. It is so he has left me-hope, love, pride, Yes, he has left me! day on day has flown; Yet still I ask if I am left alone? Thou wert my day my universe to me! Tree, bird, and flower-I found them all in thee 2. Thy soft lip's opening smiles were my young roses; Thy breath was like the evening's when it closes; Thy voice, the nightingale's rich notes to me; Thy step, the music of the summer sea! In the full strength thy perfect form bespoke, In thy proud bearing towered the lofty pine, 3. The war-horse, pawing in the distant vale, That clothes his neck with thunder for the strife, Gave me the image of thy nobler heart; I saw, like his, thy bosom dare the dart, Like his, thy full eye scorn the danger near; 4. I saw thee beautiful, in thy spring-tide Tree, bird, and flower, were thee-were only thee! 5. The Tree is gone whose branches round me spread: And the bird singing 'midst its leaves, is dead: As thou would'st do, if life I still could prize: Upon the past-for ever, oh, farewell! XXXVIII. But where was she, this fond, yet erring creature, This martyr of the heart? what home received? Who soothed that maddened mind whose every fea ture Was thus o'erwrought? was then her sense bereaved? Or still did Memory tell her while she grieved? Months rolled away-but she was unforgot; Autumn's suns burned, until the mountain heaved With its long pent-up fires: the warning drought Dried up the water-springs: the Hermit rose, and sought XXXIX. The abysses of the crater to foretell The hour to Naples when the storm should burst: He, chosen still the Mountain's oracle: Then of all presages he saw the worst, By the dark fate of poor Francesca nursed; There 'neath a stone still clung, in tatters riven, A veil, and fixed to it a cross;-the first Fond pledge of love-the sweetest to her given, When love and hope were one, when life to her seemed heaven. |