Under my household tree, if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain'd, and thee-
How can I bear the boy's young smiles to see?"
The bright blood left that youthful mother's cheek
Back on the linden stem she lean'd her form,
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,
Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm. "Twas but a moment, and the faintness pass'd. And the free Alpine spirit woke at last.
And she, that ever through her home had moved
With the meek thoughtfulness and quiet smile
Of woman, calmly loving and beloved,
And timid in her happiness the while,
Stood brightly forth, and steadfastly, that hour,
Her clear glance kindling into sudden power.
Ay, pale she stood, but with an eye of light,
And took her fair child to her holy breast,
And lifted her soft voice, that gather'd might
As it found language:-" Are we thus oppress'd?
Then must we rise upon our mountain-sod,
And man must arm, and woman call on God!
"I know what thou wouldst do ;-and be it done
Thy soul is darken'd with its fears for me.
Trust me to Heaven, my husband! this, thy son,
The babe whom I have born thee, must be free!
And the sweet memory of our pleasant hearth
May well give strength—if aught be strong on earth.
"Thou hast been brooding o'er the silent dread
Of my desponding tears; now, lift once more,
My hunter of the hills! thy stately head,
And let thine eagle glance my joy restore!
I can bear all, but seeing thee subdued-
Take to thee back thine own undaunted mood.
"Go forth beside the waters, and along
The chamois paths, and through the forests go;
And tell, in burning words, thy tale of wrong
To the brave hearts that 'midst the hamlets glow
God shall be with thee, my beloved!-Away!
Bless but thy child, and leave me :-I can pray!"
He sprang up, like a warrior youth awaking
To clarion sounds upon the ringing air;
He caught her to his breast, while proud tears breaking
From his dark eyes fell o'er her braided hair;
And "worthy art thou," was his joyous cry,
"That man for thee should gird himself to die.
"My bride, my wife, the mother of my child!
Now shall thy name be armor to my heart:
VOL. II-9
And this our land, by chains no more defiled,
Be taught of thee to choose the better part!
I go thy spirit on my words shall dwell,
Thy gentle voice shall stir the Alps :-Farewell!"
And thus they parted, by the quiet lake,
In the clear starlight: he the strength to rouse
Of the free hills; she, thoughtful for his sake,
To rock her child beneath the whispering boughs,
Singing its blue half-curtain'd eyes to sleep,
With a low hymn, amidst the stillness deep.
Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, represents her show ing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.]
Tell me no more, no more
Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain
To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?
Have I not loved, and striven, and fail'd to bind
One true heart unto me, whereon my own
Might find a resting place, a home for all
Its burden of affections? I depart,
Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leave
The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death
Shall give my name a power to win such tears
As would have made life precious.
ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!
And in its brigh fulfilment let me pour
My soul away! Let earth retain a trace
Of that which lit my being, though its race
Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!
From my deep spirit one victorious gleam
Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!
May this last work, this farewell triumph be-
Thou, loved so vainly? I would leave enshrined
Something immortal of my heart and mind,
That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,
Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone
Of lost affection ;-something that may prove
What she hath been, whose melancholy love
On thee was lavish'd; silent pang and tear,
And fervent song, that gush'd when none were near
And dream by night, and weary thought by day,
Stealing the brightness from her life away-
While thou- Awake! not yet within me die!
Under the burden and the agony
Of this vain tenderness-my spirit, wake!
Even for thy sorrowful affection's sake,
Live! in thy work breathe out!-that he may yet,
Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret
Thine unrequited gift.
Within me born flows back-my fruitless dower
That could not win me love. Yet once again
I greet it proudly, with its rushing train
Of glorious images:-they throng-they press—
A sudden joy lights up my loneliness-
The bright work grows Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,
Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,
I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,
Through the pale marble's veins. It grows!-and now
I give my own life's history to thy brow,
Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear
My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,
Touch'd into lovelier being by the glow
Which in me dwells, as by the summer light
All things are glorified. From thee my woe
Shall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,
When I am pass'd away. Thou art the mould,
Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th' untold
The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,
Thou the deserted by the lonely sea,
With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye-
Speak to him, lorn one deeply, mournfully,
Of all my love and grief? Oh! could I throw
Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,
And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,
To send the passion of its melody
Through his pierced bosom-on its tones to bear
My life's deep feeling, as the southern air
Wafts the faint myrtle's breath-to rise, to swell,
To sink away in accents of farewell,
Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow
Surely my parted spirit yet might know,
If love be strong as death!
Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,
I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given
Birth to creations of far nobler thought;
I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone;-a heart whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o'erflow
My aching soul and find no shore below;
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