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Then they were silent :-words are little aid

To Love, whose deepest rows are ever made "Ts a wild tale-and sad, too, as the sigh By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is That young lips breathe when Love's first Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss !

dreamings fly; Music swept past :-it was a simple tone; When blights and cankerworms, and chilling But it has wakened heartfelt sympathies;


It has brought into life things past and gone; Come withering o'er the warm heart's pas Has wakened all those secret memories,

sion-flowers. That may be smothered, but that still will be Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee, Present within thy soul, young Rosale! Of all thy thousand hopes, thy many fears, The notes had roused an answering chord Thy morning-blushes.and thy evening-tears;

within: What thou hast ever been, and still wilt be, In other days, that song her vesper-hymn Life's best, but most betraying witchery!

had been. Her altered look is pale: that dewy eye

Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear;It is a night of summer,—and the sea That smile is mocked by a scarce-breathing Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity.

sigh, Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight Which tells of silent and suppressed care


Tells that the life is withering with despair, Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its More irksome from its unsunned silentness


| A festering wound the spirit pines to bear; Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it A galling chain, whose pressure will intrade,

Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightSome face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon.

est mood.
The waves are motionless, save where the oar,
Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone,
Has broken in upon their azure sleep.

Where are her thoughts thus wandering! Odours are on the air: the gale has been

-A spot, Wandering in groves where the rich roses / Now distant far, is pictured on her mind.


A chesnut shadowing a low white cot. Where orange, citron, and the soft lime

With rose and jasmine round the casement flowers

twined, Shed forth their fragrance to night's dewy

Mixed with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind. hours.

Alone, (oh! should such solitude be here!) • Afar the distant city meets the gaze,

An aged form beneath the shade reclined, Where tower and turret in the pale light shine, | Whose eye glanced round the scene ;- and Seen like the monuments of other daya

then a tear Monuments Time balf shadows, half displays. I Told that she missed one in her heart And there are many, who, with witching song

enshrined. And wild guitar's soul-thrilling melody,

Then came remembrances of other times, Or the lute's melting music, float along

When eve oped her rich bowers for the pale O'er the blue waters, still and silently.

day; That night bad Naples sent her best display When the faint, distant tones of convent of young and gallant, beautiful and gay.

chimes | Were answered by the lute and vesper-lay:

When the fond mother blest her gentle child. There was a bark a little way apart And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild From all the rest, and there two lovers

leant: One with a blushing cheek and beating heart, And she has left the aged one to steep And bashful glance, upon the sea-wave bent; Her nightly couch with tears for that love She might not meet the gaze the other sent

child, Upon her beauty ;-but the half-breathed The ROSALIE,— who left her age to wrep.

When that the tempter Nattered her and The deepening colour, timid smiling eyes,

wiled Told that she listened Love's sweet flatteries. Her steps away, from her own home begniled

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day ;

She started up in agony :-her eye Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and Met MANFREDI's. Softly he spoke, and smiled;

fearsMemory is past, and thought and feeling lie The worldly dreams o'er which the many Lost in one dream-all thrown on one wild die.

brood; They floated o'er the waters, till the moon The heart-beat hushed in mild and chastened Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith

mood. noon,

It was the image of the maid who wept Till each glad bark at length had sought Those precious tears that heal and purify.

the shore,

Love yet upon her lip his station kept, And the waves echoed to the lute no more ; But Heaven and heavenly thoughts were in Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray

her eye. Of lamps shed light only less bright than One knelt before the shrine, with check as

pale And there they feasted till the morn did fling As was the cold white marble. Can this be Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling. The young-the loved the happy Rosalik? And life was as a tale of faerie,

Alas alas ! hers is a common tale:As when some Eastern genie rears brightShe trusted, as youth ever has believed :


She heard Love's vows-confided-was deAnd spreads the green turf and the coloured

ceived! flowers; And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky, To yield their treasures for some gentle

| Oh, Love! thy essence is thy purity! queen,

Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy Whose reign is over the enchanted scene.

flame, And Rosalie had pledged a magic cup

And it is gone for ever,--and but leaves
The maddening cup of pleasure and of love! |A sullied vase-its pure light lost in shame!
There was for her one only star above! -
She bent in passionate idolatry
Before her hcart's sole idol-MANFREDI! And Rosalie was loved,—not with that pare

And holy passion which can age endure;
But loved with wild and self-consuming


A torch which glares-and scorches—and 'Tis night again-a soft and summer

expires. night ;

A little while her dream of bliss remained, A deep-blue heaven, white clouds, moon A little while Love's wings were left and starlight;-

unchained. So calm, 60 beautiful, that human eye But change came o'er the trusted MANFREDI : Might wecp to look on such a tranquilsky:- His heart forgot its vowed idolatry; A night just formed for Hope's first dream And his forgotten love was left to brood

of bliss,

O'er wrongs and ruin in her solitude! Or for Love's yet more perfect happiness!


How very desolate that breast must be, The moon is o'er a grove of cypress-trees, Whose only joyance is in memory! Weeping, like mourners, in the plaining And what must woman suffer, thus bebreeze;

trayed !Echoing the music of a rill, whose song Her heart's most warm and precious feelings Glided so sweetly, but so sad, along.

made But things wherewith to wound: that heart

60 weak, There is a little chapel in the shade, So soft- laid open to the vulture's beak! Where many a pilgrim has knelt down and Its sweet revealings given up to scorn

It barns to bear, and yet that must be borne ! To the sweet saint, whose portrait, o'er the And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion,

To know the shrine which had our soul's The painter's skill has made all but divine.

devotion It was a pale, a melancholy face,

Is that of a false deity!-to look A cheek wbich bore the trace of frequent Upon the eyes we worshipped, and brook


Their cold reply! Yet these are all for her! And worn by grief,—though grief might The rude world's outcast,and love's wanderer!

Alas! that love, which is so sweet a thing, The real that beanty set in happier years; Should ever canse guilt, grief, or suffering! And such a smile as on the brow appears Yet she upon whose face the sunbeams fallOf one whose earthly thoughts, long since That dark-eyed girl-had felt their bitterest subdued

not efface

thrall !


She thought upon her leve; and there was Worth restlessness,oppression,goading fears, not

And long-deferred hopes of many years, In passion's record one green sunny spot- To reach again that little quiet spot, It had been all a madness and a dream, So well loved once, and never quite forgot ;The shadow of a flower on the stream, To trace again the steps of infancy, Which seems, but is not; and then memory And catch their freshness from their memory!


And it is triumph, sure, when fortune's suun To her lone mother. How her bosom burned Has shone upon us, and our task is done, With sweet and bitter thoughts ! There | To show our harvest to the eyes which were

might be rest- Once all the world to us! Perhaps there are The wounded dove will flee into her nest- Some who had presaged kindly of our youth. That mother's arms might fold her child Feel we not proud their prophecy was sooth?


But how felt Rosalie ?— The very air The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, Seemed as it brought reproach! there was And falsehood be remembered no more,

no eye In that calm shelter :--and she might weep To look delighted, welcome none was there!


She felt as feels an outcast wandering by Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she Where every door is closed! She looked To whom she knelt found pardon in the eyes

around; of Heaven, in offering for sacrifice

She heard some voices' sweet familiar sound. A broken heart? And might not pardon be There were some changed and some remenAlso for her? She looked up to the face

bered things; of that pale saint; and in that gentle brow, There were girls, whom she left in their first Which seemed to hold communion with her

springs, thought,

Now blushed into full beauty; there was one There was a smile which gave hope energy. Whom she loved tenderly in days now gone! She prayed one deep, wild prayer,—that she She was not dancing gaily with the rest :

might gain

A rose-cheeked child within her arms was The home she hoped; -- then sought that

prest; home again. And it had twined its small hands in the hair

That clustered o'er its mother's brow: as fair

As buds in spring. She gave her laughing A flush of beauty is upon the sky

dove Eve's last warm blushes—like the crimson dye | To one who clasped it with a father's love; The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes And if a painter's eye had sought a scene


Of love in its most perfect lovelinessThe graceful lover's, sighing at her feet. Of childhood, and of wedded happiness, And there were sounds of music on the breeze, He would have painted the sweet MADELINE! And perfume shaken from the citron-trees; But ROSALIE shrank from them, and she While the dark chesnuts caught a golden ray

strayed On their green leaves, the last bright gift Through a small grove of cypresses, whose of day;

shade And peasants dancing gaily in the shade Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low To the soft mandolin, whose light notes made

stone An echo fit to the glad voices singing. And the gray cross recorded those now gone! The twilight-spirit his sweet urn is flinging There was a grave just closed. Not one Of dew upon the lime and orange-stems,

seemed near, And giving to the rose pearl-diadems. To pay the tribute of one long-last tear!

How very desolate must that one be

Whose more than grave has not a memory! There is a pilgrim by that old gray tree, With head upon her hand bent mournfully; And looking round upon each lovely thing, Then Rosalie thought on her mother's And breathing the sweet air, as they could

age, bring

Just such her end would be with her away, To her no beauty and no solacing.

No child the last cold death-pang to assuage 'Tis Rosalie! Her prayer was not in vain. No child by her neglected tomb to pray! The truant-child has sought her home again ! She asked - and like a hope from Heaven it


To hear them answer with a stranger's name. It must be worth a life of toil and care, Worth those dark chains the wearied one

must bear

She reached her mother's cottage ; by Who toils up fortune's steep,--all that can

that gate wring

She thought how her once lover wont to The worn-out bosom with lone suflering, - |


To tell her honied tales; and then she |A thousand deep-blue violets have grown


Over the sod.-I do love violets: On all the atter rain he had wrought! They tell the history of woman's love; The moon shone brightly, as it used to do They open with the earliest breath of spring; Ere youth, and hope, and love, had been Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew and light;


And, if they perish, perish with a sigh But it shone o'er the desolate! The flowers Delicious as that life; on the hot June Were dead; the faded jessamine, unbound, They shed no perfume; the flowers may Trailed, like a heavy weed, upon the ground;

remain, And fell the moonlight vainly over trees, But the rich breathing of their leaves is Which had not even one rose, - although

past ;the breeze,

Like woman, they have lost their loveliest Almost as if in mockery, had brought

gift, Sweet tones it from the nightingale had When yielding to the fiery hour of passion :


The violet-breath of love is purity.


She entered in the cottage. None were On the shore opposite a tower stands


In ruins, with a mourning-robe of mons The hearth was dark, -the walls looked cold Hung on the gray and shattered walls, which

and bare! All-all spoke poverty and suffering! A shadow on the waters; it comes o'er All-all was changed ! and but one only thing The waves, all bright with sunshine, like Kept its old place! Rosalie's mandolin

the gloom Hung on the wall, where it had ever been. Adversity throws on the heart's young There was one other room,-and ROSALIE

Sought for her mother there. A heavy flame
Gleamed from a dying lamp ; a cold air came
Damp from the broken casement. There I saw the river on a summer-eve:

one lay,

The sun was setting over fields of corn, Like marble seen but by the moonlight-ray! 'Twas like a golden sea ;-and on the left And Rosalie drew near. One withered hand Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone Was stretched, as it would reach a wretched

forth like gems, stand

Rubies and lighted amber; and thence spread Where some cold water stood ! And by the bed A wide heath covered with thick furze, whose She knelt-and gazed--and saw her mother


So bright, are like the pleasures of this world,
Beautiful in the distance, but, once gained,
Little worth, piercing through the thorns

which grow

Around them ever. Wilder and more steep ROLAND'S TOWER.

The banks upon the river's other side :

Tall pines rose up like warriors; the wild A LEGEND OF THE RHINE.


Was there in all its luxury of bloom, oh, Heaven! the deep fidelity of love! Sown by the wind, nursed by the dew and

sun: WHERE, like a courser starting from the spur, And on the steeps were crosses gray and old, Rushes the deep-blue current of the Rhine, Which told the fate of some poor traveller. A little island rests; green cypresses

The dells were filled with dwarfed oaks and Are its chief growth, bending their heavy

firs; boughs

And on the heights, which mastered all the O'er gray stones marking long-forgotten

rest, graves.

Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, A convent once stood here; and yet remain The spider's garrison: there is not one Relics of other times, pillars and walls, Without some strange old legend of the days Worn away and discoloured, yet so hung When love was life and death,--when lady's With wreaths of ivy that the work of ruin

glove Is scarcely visible. How like this is

Or sunny curl were banners of the battle.To the so false exterior of the world! My history is of the tower which looks Outside all looks so fresh and beautiful; Upon the little island. But mildew, rot, and worm, work on beneath, Until the beart is utterly decayed. There is one grave distinguished from the Lord HERBERT sat him in his hall: the rest,

hearth But only by a natural monument :

Was blazing as it mocked the storm without

With its red cheerfulness: the dark hounds | Its very loveliest, when the fresh air


Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad Around the fire; and the old knight had

red; doffed

And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, His bunting-cloak, and listened to the late When dearest eyes gaze with us on the page And song of the fair girl who at his knee Bearing the poet's words of love : and then Was seated. In the April-hour of life, The twilight-walk, when the linked arıns When showers are led by rainbows, and the

can feel heart

The beating of the heart; upon the air Is all bloom and green leaves, was ISABELLE: There is a music never heard but once,A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er A light the eyes can never see again;


Each star has its own prophecy of hope, They past, kept the bright curls from off the And every song and tale that breathe of love

forehead; thence Seem echoes of the heart.
They wandered to her feet-a golden shower.
She had that changing colour on the cheek
Which speaks the heart so well; those deep-

And time past byblue eyes,

As time will ever pass, when Love has lent Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad - His rainbow-plumes to aid his flight-and They were too passionate for happiness. .

spring Light was within her eyes, bloom on her Had wedded with the summer, when a steed


Stood at Lord HERBERT's gate,- and IsaHer song had raised the spirit of her race

BELLE Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told Had wept farewell to ROLAND, and had given of the young Roland's deeds,-how he had Her blue scarf for his colours. He was gone


To raise his vassals, for Lord HERBERT'S Against a host and conquered; when there

towers came

Were menaced with a siege; and he had A pilgrim to the hall—and never yet

sworn Had stranger asked for shelter and in vain! By ISABELLE's white hand that he would The board was spread, the Rhenish flask |

claim was drained; Its beauty only as a conqueror's prize. Again they gathered round the hearth, again Autumn was on the woods, when the blue The maiden raised her song; and at its

Rhine close,

Grew red with blood :- Lord HERBERT'S “I would give worlds,” she said, “ to see

banner flies, this chief,

And gallant is the bearing of his ranks. This gallant Roland! I could deem him all But where is he who said that he would ride A man must honour and a woman love!” At his right hand to battle? - ROLAND! Lady! I pray thce not recall those words, .

whereFor I am Roland!" From his face he threw Oh! where is ROLAND? The hood and pilgrim's cloak,--and a young

knight Knelt before IsabelLE!

ISABELLE has watched Day after day, night after night, in vain,

Till she has wept in hopelessness, and thought They loved ; -- they were beloved. Oh, Upon old histories, and said with them,


“There is no hope in man's fidelity!" I have said all that can be said of bliss, ISABELLE stood upon her lonely tower; In saying that they loved. The young heart And, as the evening-star rose up, she saw


| An armed train bearing her father's banner Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild In triumph to the castle. Down she flew


To greet the victors :- they had reached the And it is love that works the mind, and


Before herself. What saw the maiden there? Its treasure to the light. I did love once- A bier!-her father laid upon that bier! Loved as youth-woman-genius loves ; ROLAND was kneeling by the side, his face

though now Bowed on his hands and hid ;-but ISABELLE My heart is chilled and sear, and taught Knew the dark curling hair and stately form,

to wear

And threw her on his breast. He shrank away That falsest of false things a mask of smiles; As she were death, or sickness, or despair. Yet every pulse throbs at the memory “ISABELLE! it was I who slew thy father!" Of that which has been! Love is like the She fell almost a corpse upon the body.


It was too true! With all a lover's kpced, That throws its own rich colour over all, Roland bad sought the thickest of the fight: And makes all beautiful. The morning looks He gained the field just as the crush began;


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