AUX ITALIENS. 327 "Alas! I am well repaid," said she, "Now I shall hold my head on high, GEORGE MACDONALD. To Mary in Heaven. THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear, departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past Thy image at our last embrace! Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, Where is thy place of blissful rest? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ROBERT BURNS. Aux Italiens. AT Paris it was, at the opera there; And she looked like a queen in a book that night, With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair, And the brooch on her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me ?" The Emperor there, in his box of state, Looked grave; as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate, Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye: You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain. Well! there in our front-row box we sat, And hers on the stage hard by. And both were silent, and both were sad; So confident of her charm! I have not a doubt she was thinking then I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, I wish him well, for the jointure given |