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In aged temple, ruined shrine,
| Far down the beach, where a cypress-grove And its green wreath of ivy-twine;
Casts its shade round a little cove, In every change of earth and sky,
Darkling and green, with just a space
For the stars to shine on the water's face,
And its breeze to waft and hide its flight.
To a garden, fair as those By love, it would be like the fire
Where the glory of the rose The burning lava-floods that dwell
Blushes, charmed from the decay
That wastes other blooms away;
Told, till the wood-fire grows pale,
By the Arab tribes, when night, Over the Arno's waters gliding,
With its dim and lovely light, I had been watching the fair moon
And its silence, suiteth well Amid her court of white clouds riding : With the magic tales they tell. I had been listening to the gale,
Through that cypress-avenue, Which wafted music from around,
Such a garden meets the view, (For scarce a lover, at that hour,
Filled with flowers-flowers that seem
Fruits of gold and gems, and leaves
O'er the false and broken-hearted,
All with which its youth has parted,
| There is a white rose in yon bower, Wandering round the lovely scene,
But holds it a yet fairer flower: Filled with those melancholy tears,
And music from that cage is breathing, Which come when all most bright appears, Round which a jasmine-braid is wreathing, And hold their strange and secret power, A low song from a lonely dove, Even on pleasure's golden hour.
A song such exiles sing and love, I had been looking on the river,
Breathing of fresh fields, summer-skies,-! Half-marvelling to think that ever
Not to be breathed of but in sighs! Wind, wave, or sky, could darken where But fairer smile and sweeter sigh All seemed so gentle and so fair:
Are near when Leila's step is nigh! And mingled with these thought there came With eyes dark as the midnight-time, A tale, just one that Memory keeps Yet lighted like a summer-clime Forgotten music, till some chance
With sun-rays from within; yet now
'Though never lovelier brow was given
As every leaf and every flower
That maiden will be far away,
A wanderer o'er the dark-blue sea,
Her mother's land! Hence, on her breast
And hence those sweetest sounds, that seom The burning sands of the desert rolled. Like music murmuring in a dream, Far to the left, the sky and sea
When in our sleeping ear is ringing Mingled their gray immensity ;
The song the nightingale is singing ; And with flapping sail and idle prow When by that white and funeral stone, The vessels threw their shades below | Half-hidden by the cypress-gloom,
A NOORISH ROMANCE,
The hymn the mother taught her child As the dim moon through vapours shoneIs sung each evening at her tomb.
A few short rays, her light was gone. But quick the twilight-time has past, O'er head a sullen scream was heard, Like one of those sweet calms that last As sought the land the white sea-bird, A moment and no more, to cheer
Her pale wings like a meteor streaming, The turmoil of our pathway here.
Upon the waves a light is gleamingThe bark is waiting in the bay,
Ill-omened brightness, sent by Death Night darkens round:-- LEILA, away! To light the night-black depths beneath. Far, ere to-morrow, o'er the tide,
The vessel rolled amid the surge ;
The winds howled round it, like a dirge
The rush of thunder and of flame:
It showed two forms upon the deck, Her ear will listen to its strain!
One clasped around the other's neck, She took her cage, first kissed the breast As there she could not dream of fearThen freed the white dove prisoned there: In her lover's arms could danger be near? It paused one moment on her hand,
He stood and watched her with the eye
They burst upon the ship!-the sea
Surely theirs is pleasant sleep
For years alone beside the sea! She stood before the prisoner's sight, The last of a most noble race, And led him to the cypress-grove,
That once had there their dwelling-place, And showed the bark and hidden cove; Long past away! Beneath its shade, And bade the wandering captive flee, A soft green couch the turf had made:In words he knew from infancy!
And glad the morning-sun is shining And then she thought how for her love On those beneath the boughs reclining. He had braved slavery and death,
Nearer the fisher drew. He saw That he might only breathe the air
The dark hair of the Moorish maid, Made sweet and sacred by her breath. Like a veil, floating o'er the breast She reached the grove of cypresses-- Where tenderly her head was laid ; Another step is by her side :
And yet her Jover's arın was placed Another moment, and the bark
Clasping around the graceful waist; Bears the fair Moor across the tide! But then he marked the youth's black curls
Were dripping wet with foam and blood;
| And that the maiden's tresses dark 'Twas beautiful, by the pale moonlight, Were heavy with the bring flood ! To mark her eyes,--now dark, now bright, Woe for the wind !-woe for the ware! As now they met, now shrank away, They sleep the slumber of the grave! From the gaze that watched and worshipped They buried them beneath that tree ;
It long had been a sacred spot.
Or yet lived in those dreams of truth
That make the loveliness of love:
That she who perished in she sea
Might thus be kept in memory.
From many a lip came sounds of praise
Like music from sweet voices ringing: Another evening came, but dark :
For many a boat had gathered round, The storm-clouds hovered round the bark To list the song I had been singing. Of misery :- they just could sco
There are some moments in our fate The distant shore of Italy,
| That stamp the colour of our days:
As, till then, life had not been felt,
And in the midst, beneath a shade
O'er oranges, like Eastern gold,
Half hidden by the dark green fold With almost female softness, came
Of their large leaves ;-o'er hyacinth-bells, O'er its mingled gloom and flame.
Where every summer-odour dwells, His cheek was pale; or toil, or care, And, nestled in the midst, a pair Or midnight-study, had been there, Of white wood-doves, whose home was there: Making its young colours dull,
And like an echo to their song Yet leaving it most beautiful;
At times a murmur past along; Raven-curls their shadow threw,
A dying tone, a plaining fall, Like the twilight's darkening hue,
So sad, so wild, so musicalO'er the pure and mountain snow
As the wind swept across the wire, Of bis high and haughty brow:
And waked my lone Aeolian lyre, Lighted by a smile, whose spell
Which lay upon the casement, where
The lattice wooed the cold night-air,
Of jasmine with the emerald vine.
And ever as the curtains made Like those words that cannot die.
A varying light, a changeful shade,
As the breeze waved them to and fro,
of pictured walls where landscape wild Making woman's heart his own;
Of wood, and stream, or mountain piled, Such as should be heard at night,
Or sunny vale, or twilight grove, In the dim and sweet starlight;
| Or shapes whose every look was love; Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep,
Saints, whose diviner glance seemed caught Treasures for her heart to keep.
From Heaven, - some whose earthlier Like the pine of summer tall;
thought Apollo, on his pedestal
Was yet more lovely,-shone like gleams In our own gallery, never bent
Of Beauty's spirit seen in dreams. More graceful, more magnificent;
I threw me on a couch to rest, Ne'er look'd the hero, or the king,
Loosely I fung my long black hair; More nobly than the youth who now, It seemed to soothe my troubled breast As if soul-centred in my song,
To drink the quiet evening-air.
I looked upon the deep-blue sky,
And the distant wood's black coronal
Was like oblivion, that covereth all. Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. I know not why my soul felt sad; My hand kept wandering on my lute, I touched my lute,- it would not waken, In music, but unconsciously
Save to old songs of sorrowing-
Each lay of lighter feeling slept,
THE CHARMED CUP.
And he could feel her beating heart,
The tears she could no more command, Amid my palace-halls was one,
The lip which trembled, though near his ; The most peculiarly my own:
The sigh that mingled with her kiss;The roof was blue and fretted gold,
Yet parted he from that embrace. The floor was of the Parian stone,
He cast one glance upon her face: Shining like snow, as only meet
His very soul felt sick to see For the light tread of fairy-feet;
Its look of utter misery;
Yet turned he not; one moment's grief, As woman's heart!-and deeper woc
It was a dark and tempest night-
No pleasant moon, no blest starlight; But soon he entered that fair hall:
But meteors glancing o'er the way, His laugh was loudest there of all;
Only to dazzle and betray. And the cup that wont one name to bless,
And who is she that, 'mid the storm, Was drained for its forgetfulness
Wraps her slight mantle round her form? The ring, once next his heart, was broken;
Her hair is wet with rain and sleet, The gold chain kept another token.
And blood is on her small snow-feet.
She has been forced a way to make
Through prickly weed and thorned brake,
Up rousing from its coil the snake; Of the first spring-day's golden shade,
And stirring from their damp abode Waves with the dark plumes on his crest.
The slimy worm and loathsome toad : Fresh colours are upon his breast:
And shuddered as she heard the gale The slight blue scarf, of simplest fold,
Shriek like an evil spirit's wail; Is changed for one of woven gold.
| When followed, like a curse, the crash And he is by a maiden's side,
Of the pines in the lightning flash :Whose gems of price, and robes of pride
A place of evil and of fear-
Oh! what can Julian's love do here?
On, on the pale girl went. At last
The gloomy forest-depths are past,
And never had a ban been laid
Upon a more unwholesome shade.
Its thick sepulchral shadow threw;
And brooded there each bird most foul, There's many an ill that clings to love;
The gloomy bat and sullen owl.
But Ida entered in the cell,
Where dwelt the wizard of the dell. This may be pardoned-something rare
Her heart lay dead, her life-blood froze In loveliness has been thy snare!
To look upon the shape which rose But how, fair Love, canst thou become
To bar her entrance. On that face
Was scarcely left a single trace
Of human likeness: the parched skin
And, but for the most evil stare
of the wild eyes' unearthly glare, A cold white statue; as the blood
It was a corpse, you would have said, Had, when in vain her last wild prayer, From which life's freshness long had fled Flown to her heart, and frozen there. Yet Ida knelt her down and prayed Upon ber temple, each dark vein
To that dark sorcerer for his aid. Swelled in its agony of pain.
He heard her prayer with withering look; Chill, heavy damps were on her brow;
Then from unholy herbs he took Her arms were stretched at length, though A drug, and said it would recover
The lost heart of her faithless lover. Their clasp was on the empty air:
She trembled as she turned to see A funeral pall--her long black hair
His demon-sneer's malignity; Fell over her; herself the tomb
And every step was winged with dread, Of her own youth, and breath, and bloom. To hear the curse howled as she fled.
Alas! that man should ever win
It is the purple twilight-hour, | And JULIAN is in Iba's bower.
He has brought gold, as gold could bless | Then art thou bliss :—but once throw by Ilis work of utter desolateness!
The veil which shrouds thy divinity; He has brought gems, as if Despair Stand confessed, -and thy quiet is fled! Had any pride in being fair!
Wild flashes of rapture may come instead, But Ida only wept, and wreathed
But pain will be with them. What may Her white arme round his neck; then
The gentle happiness known before?
No word of love LORENZO breathed;
But I lived in a magic ring, To witness her lone constancy!
Of every pleasant flower wreathed. She called upon the silent boughs,
A brighter blue was on the sky, The temple of her Julian's vows
A sweeter breath in music's sigh; or happiness too dearly bought!
The orange-shrubs all seemed to bear Then wept again. At length she thought | Fruit more rich, and buds more fair. Upon the forest-sorcerer's gift
There was a glory on the noon, The last, lone hope that love had left! A beauty in the crescent moon, She took the cup, and kissed the brim, A lulling stillness in the night, Mixed the dark spell, and gave it him A feeling in the pale starlight. To pledge his once dear Ipa's name!
There was a charmed note on the wind, He drank it. Instantly the flame
A spell in Poetry's deep storeRan through his veins: one fiery throb Heart-uttered words, passionate thoughta, Of bitter pain-one gasping sob
Which I had never marked before. Of agony--the cold death-sweat
'Twas as my heart's full happiness Is on his face-his teeth are set
Poured over all its own excess.
And all of gallant, fair, and young,
I went, garbed as a Hindoo-girl;
And shall I own that I was proud
A murmur of delight, when first
My mask and veil I threw aside?
Whose eye was gazing on me too!
Lorenzo! I was proud to be
Worshipped and flattered but for thee!
THE HINDOO-GIRL'S SONG.
Playful and wild as the fire-flies' light,
sameAs the sleep of a child, as the dew-fall of balm. They were shadows, not fuel, to love's dulled Fear has not darkened thee; Hope has not
flame. made The blossoms expand, it but opens to fade. Nothing is known of those wearing fears Love once formed an amulet, Which will shadow the light of thy after- / With pearls, and a rainbow, and rose-leaves years.