It may be that hot youth comes-it may be, we behold
Here, broken at the cistern, pale beauty's bowl of gold.
Mayhap that manhood's struggle, despite of pride and power, Hath ended in the darkness and sadness of this hour: Perchance some white-haired pilgrim, with travel sore oppressed, Hath let his broken staff fall, and bent him down to rest.
But stay! behold the sepulchre-nor age nor strength is there; Nor fame, nor pride, nor manhood, those lagging mourners
A little child is with them, as pale and pure as snow,
Her mother's tears not dried yet upon her gentle brow.
The step that tottered, trembling, the heart that faltered, too,
At the faintest sound of terror the infant spirit knew ;
The eyes that glistened tearful when shadowy eve came on,
Now show no dread of sleeping in darkness and alone.
And why, though all be lonely, should that young spirit fear, Through midnight and through tempest, no shielding bosom near?
Ere the clod was on the coffin-ere the spade had cleft the clodBright angels clad an angel in the raiment of their God!
Green home of future thousands! how blest in sight of heaven Are these, the tender firstlings, that death to thee has given! Though prayer and solemn anthem have echoed from thy hill, This first fresh grave of childhood hath made thee holier still.
The morning flowers that deck thee shall sweeter, lovelier,
Above the spot where beauty like theirs hath found a tomb;
And when the evening cometh, the very stars shall keep
A vigil, as of seraphs, where innocence doth sleep.
Sweet hope! that when the slumbers of thy pilgrims shall be o'er,
And the valley of death's shadow hath mystery no more,
To them the trumpet's clangor may whisper accents mild,
And bid them wear the garlands that crown this little child!
How many a gem hath Nature's hand
Flung o'er Italia's fallen land!
How bright the world she bids to bloom
Around old Empire's prostrate tomb!
Oh! who, with patriot soul to dare,
Could gaze upon a land so fair,
Or list, as Nature's joy goes by
From vocal wood and echoing sky,
Or feel that yon ethereal dome
Hangs, ever cloudless, o'er his home,
And not-with hand upon his sword,
And "Rome and Brutus!" for his word
Fling off the chain that galls him now,
Bind once again about his brow
The laurel of the glorious past,
And, kneeling by some temple's wall,
Whose heavenless gods for vengeance call,
Swear that unyielding to the last—
He will not shame his father's grave,
And live-a Roman and a slave!
Alas! Italia's brighter day,
Her glory's noon, hath passed away,
And, mindless of their country's wrong,
Her sons, with love and dance and song.
Now teach the stream of joy to swell
From matin chime to vesper bell.
But not upon their souls is thrown
The blight of luxury alone,
For there her throne hath falsehood made,
There vengeance bares the bravo's blade,
And men, for rights who dare not bleed,
Lurk armed for murder's midnight deed.
They too, the daughters of that clime,
How is their beauty linked with crime!
By passion's cunning taught to know
Affection's lightest ebb or flow;
Familiar with each jealous wile,
Too prompt to seek for falsehood's guile,
Too apt, from any doubts, to prove
The frailty of the hearts they love,
They pass o'er life, as o'er a sea
Of bitterness and mockery;
Too ardent for a world like this,
Too high in hope for earthly bliss!
Oh! would ye know how dread the fate
That drinks the venom of their hate,
Go, hear it in the long wild cry
That echoes round Colalto's towers!
Go, ask it of the moonless sky
That on a woman's vengeance lowers!
Go, seek it where, from yon gray wall,
Now crumbles fast the stony pall
Of one whom, to her living grave,
Without a Christian rite to bless,
A woman's vengeance madly gave,
In her youth's prime and loveliness.
Bethink ye, when each mould'ring bone
Beneath touch to dust hath gone,
That she, whose wreck before you lies,
Was radiant as her own bright skies
In brow and cheek, and form and air
As pure, as sunny, and as fair!
Methinks in yonder bower she stands,
Her lady's tresses in her hands,
And o'er her lips there plays the while
A lucid and a happy smile-
A smile so fraught with peace and joy,
By innocence so heavenly made,
So free from grovelling earth's alloy,
"Twere mournful it should ever fade.
Upon her face, with raptured mien,
Colalto's lord is fondly seen
To turn his eye's scarce smothered flame,
While now and then, by stealth, there came
A sigh which told how wild a guest
Had made its homestead in his breast.
The thoughts he dares not then to speak
Are burning on his swarthy cheek,
And on his lips, and o'er his brow,
The smile, the flush, to fever grow!
Unconscious of his lawless gaze,
With fairy hand she lightly plays
Amid her lady's flowing hair,
And smiling on, with that bright smile,
She seems as if no dream of guile,
No tainted thought, could enter there!
Alas! across the mirror's face,
Her lady's jaundiced sight may trace
Where, true to life, reflected steals
Each glance her lord too ill conceals;
And when she marks that maiden's eye,
And lip, so full of ecstasy,
Though bleeds her thrilling bosom, torn
In turns, by fury, hate, and scorn,
No word she speaks-but, ere the night
Hath half run o'er its dismal flight,
In yon deep, torch-lit vault, they say,
A deed is done which weary years
Of madness and repentant tears
Were all too few to cleanse away!
Why should we paint yon niche's shade—
The fainting form within it laid—
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