For me I depart to a brighter shore,
Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more. I go where the loved who have left you dwell, And the flowers are not Death's,-fare ye well, farewell!
BALLAD OF CRESENTIUS.
I LOOK'D upon his brow,-no sign Of guilt or fear was there,
He stood as proud by that death-shrine As even o'er Despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that Death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He raised them haughtily;
And had that grasp been on the brand, It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now; Around he looked with changeless brow On many a torture nigh;
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before; he rode Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands throng'd the road, And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told Of many a soldier's deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
But now he stood chained and alone, The headsman by his side,
The plume, the helm, the charger gone ; The sword, which had defied The mightiest, lay broken near: And yet no sign or sound of fear Came from that lip of pride; And never king or conqueror's brow Wore higher look than did his now.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke With an uncover'd eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke Who throng'd to see him die. It was a people's loud acclaim, The voice of anger and of shame, A nation's funeral cry,
Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot and her latest one.
EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE.
FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I
Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute ? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
He spoke not when the others spoke, His heart was all too full for praise; But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine Which sank beneath their burning gaze. Mine sank-but yet I felt the thrill Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said
Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh. My hand kept wandering on my lute, In music, but unconsciously;
My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high, A flush of dizzy ecstacy
Crimsoned my cheek; I felt warm tears Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet, My wild heart's most bewildering beat, Consciousness, without hopes or fears,
Of a new power within me waking, Like light before the morn's full breaking.
I loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves—- Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn: Life had no evil destiny
That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been nurst in palaces;
Yet earth had not a spot so drear, That I should not have thought a home In Paradise, had he been near! How sweet it would have been to dwell, Apart from all, in some green dell Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers; And nestling birds to sing the hours! Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade, But of the woven branches made:
Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail The rose hears from the nightingale ; And waked at morning by the call Of music from a waterfall.
But not alone in dreams like this, Breathed in the very hope of bliss, I loved my love had been the same In hushed despair, in open shame. I would have rather been a slave,
In tears, in bondage, by his side, Than shared in all, if wanting him, This world had power to give beside!
My heart was withered,—and my heart Had ever been the world to me: And love had been the first fond dream, Whose life was in reality.
I had sprung from my solitude, Like a young bird upon the wing To meet the arrow; so I met
My poisoned shaft of suffering. And as that bird, with drooping crest And broken wing, will seek his nest, But seek in vain: so vain I sought My pleasant home of song and thought. There was one spell upon my brain, Upon my pencil, on my strain; But one face to my colours came ; My chords replied to but one name→ Lorenzo !-all seemed vowed to thee, To passion, and to misery!
Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phoebe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen:
Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd ; A native skill her simple robes express'd, As with untutor'd elegance she dress'd;
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