A slander'd name, and many other weights,
Which hapless drunkards all must carry!
When he himself might from those loads be free,
By keeping sober! who would spirits drink,
To rack his brain, and live a vicious life,
So full of woe, and what is worse than death-
To be the slave of habit, from whose power,
Few victims e'er escape. Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to drink, which breeds disease and death !-W. G.
COLD, hungry, and sad, through this wild waste of snow,
In the horrors of darkness, distracted I go.
Shall we kneel, O my child, at thy grandfather's door,
Whence, relentless and cruel, he spurned us before?
My mother, behold at thy threshold I lie!
On the babe of my love cast a pitying eye!
From the tempest of night screen this woe-wasted form,
For I sink in the blast of the merciless storm.
By the tears that you shed when I first saw the day,
And helpless and weak on thy bosom I lay,
By all the soft raptures that glowed in your breast,
When delighted, you clasped me and sung me to rest;
By the feelings maternal that thrilled through your frame,
When with infantile accents I first lisped your name,
And the joys that you felt, when I playfully strove
To climb your dear knee for the kiss of your love.
On my innocent babe cast a pitying eye!
Behold at thy threshold in sorrow I lie!
From the tempest of night, screen my woe-wasted form,
For I shrink in the blasts of the merciless storm.
If ever you hung with delight o'er your child,
If you wept when I wept, if you smiled when I smiled,
If my gentle endearments could ever impart,
In youth's early morning, one joy to your heart;
If in life's anxious troubles, I brought you relief;
If I watched you in sickness, and soothed you in grief,
From the tempest of night shield this woe-wasted form,
For I shrink in the blast of the merciless storm.
To thee my poor babe lifts her hands and her eyes,
O shut not thy heart from her soul-rending cries!
But save HER, at least, shield her delicate form,
'Though I sink in the blast of the pitiless storm!
Thus she prayed-but her father enraged, from the door
Now spurns her again, as he spurned her before;
Cold and pale falls her child on her woe-wasted form,
And she dies in the blast of the pitiless storm!
Ir ever you should come to Modena,
Where, among other relics, you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one-
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses—
Will long detain you; but before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you-
And look awhile upon the picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward, as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!"—her vest of gold,
'Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart—
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carv'd by Anthony of Trent,
With scripture stories from the life of Christ—
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That, by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture, and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there :—
She was an only child—her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there, in her bridal dress,
She was;-all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum ;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found! Her father cried"""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all-but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
And from that hour could anything be guess'd,
But that she was not!
Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search, 'Mid the old lumber on the gallery That mouldering chest was notic'd; and 'twas said By one as young and thoughtless as Ginevra, 66 'Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp clasping a shred of gold;
All else had perish'd, saving a wedding-ring,
And a small seal-her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
"Ginevra."
There then she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy, When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever.
THE lady she walk'd from the battled tower,
The moon shed her silvery light;
She wander'd alone to her peaceful bower,
In the silent and starry night.
Not a breath disturb'd the solemn calm
That o'er nature's beauties hung;
But the closing flowers exhal'd their balm,
As thus the damsel sung :—
"Oh, where is my love, my own true knight, Why tarries he still from me?
In glittering mail and gold bedight,
And his red plume waving free.
The strife is o'er, on the field no more
Expos'd to death is he;
He has won renown from shore to shore,
Why tarries he then from me?
"I have laurels green to bind his brow,
Sweet words his breast to swell,
A tongue to speak affection's vow,
More priz'd than tongue can tell.
I've a heart that purely throbs for one,
That one is he alone;
A heart that ne'er but by him was won-
But where is my own knight gone?"
The maiden she wept in her fragrant bower,
And sadly she wept and sighed ;
And quickly flew each dreary hour,
What woe did her betide.
And now the old abbey's dismal chime
Tolled forth the drear midnight;
She marked the silent solemn time,
But came not her own loved knight.
Again she sighed, again she wept,
And look'd out far and near;
The wind in dreary silence slept,
The moon shone bright and clear.
And in its rays, soon met her gaze,
Slow riding o'er the heath,
In mail so bright, a gallant knight,
For the laurel's fadeless wreath.
""Tis he! 'tis he!" scream'd wildly she,
As his blood-red plume she knew,
"Kind Heaven hath sent him back to me,"
And to meet him quick she flew !
Around the knight there play'd a light
That mortal eyes would strain ;
And he rais'd his silver casque so bright,
She shriek'd, and gaz'd again!
Oh God, what a sight she gaz'd upon,
As his hand he pointed thrice-
She saw the head of a skeleton-
It froze her blood to ice!
She scream'd again!-her senses fled,
Her happiness was o'er;
Her own true knight was cold and dead,
She groan'd-and breath'd no more!—Anonymous.
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself shall die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime.
The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expir'd in fight—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands,
In plague and famine some:
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead,
To shores where all was dumb!
|