And says it is a marriage wreathe. Meanwhile Her calm vague look will dawn into a smile, As something met her eye none else should see; She folds her hands, and bends imploringly To sue its stay ;—with wilder gesture turns,
And clasps her head, and cries-"It burns, it burns !" Then shakes as if her heart were ice.
The soul, the frame, could brook such bitter wrong:- Beside her lover's-that distracted head
Rests calm and pale-the grave their bridal bed. Literary Gazette.
ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS.
As one, who destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again, erewhile To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,— I now resign you! Nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore; When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. Gentleman's Magazine,
Beauty should be around the beautiful,
And these fine Arts live in an atmosphere
Of light surrounded by thrice delicate shapes Of grace and love.
THE light came dim but beautiful, through blinds Of the linked jessamine, which wooed the vine With its white kisses; and the fragrant air, Bearing low music from the wind-touched harp, Came floating through the room. By glimpses seen, As o'er the lattices the moonlight played And lighted up its waters, shone the lake, With its white swans, like spirits, gliding on Its isles of floating lilies; and its banks, Where swept the graceful willows and the turf, Silvered with dew and star-light spread beneath, Dotted with clumps of gloomy cypresses, Mixed with the fairer blossomed orange trees. And far beyond, like shadowy thunder-clouds, Rose high but distant hills; and over all A soft and blue Italian sky,-the blue That painters and that poets love, the blue The lover worships in the maiden's eyes, Whose beauty is their power and spell. And, like Sweet incense to sweet shrines, dew-scented flowers Filled up the casements; roses, on whose leaves The summer had just breathed; the buds of pearl That are the myrtle's dower; carnation stems, Rich in their perfumed blushes all were there Looking and breathing June. The marble floor Had not a spot, save two or three rich stains Cast from the pictured roof, on which was told The history of Aurora and her love,
The earthly Youth she wooed, and wooed in vain. Oh, love is very constant! "Tis most cold, Untrue, and heartless raillery, to say
That love's life is not longer than those flowers
Whose sunrise beauty is by noontide past; That it should ever change, is but the curse Shadowing our every earthly happiness; But, for one record of its fickleness
Are thousand memories of its deep, deep truth,— Its entire faith, its self-devotedness.
On one side of the roof a goiden blaze, Curtained by crimson clouds, told that the Sun, Heralded by her star, had met his bride, The sweet young Morning; and around, a ring Of radiant shapes were gathered; in the midst Was one, a very dream of loveliness,
Her hair streamed on the wind, a shower of gold Hung from a crown of stars, and four white steeds Were harnessed by spring blossoms to the car Whereon she stood. Her eye was on a youth, Graceful as young Endymion when the moon Shed her pale smile upon his marble brow And thick and raven curls: he stood beneath A green beech tree, two hounds were by his side, Impatient of his idleness, while he
Leant on his useless spear, watching the sleep Of his young bride. He had just heard his name Murmured, in tones low as a bird's first song From her half opened lips, which like spring flowers Drank the fresh air, then sighed it forth again With added fragrance. There was shade around; The laurel, and the darker bay, the oak, All sacred as the crowns of fame. The first Bound round the Poet's tuneful lyre; the next Around the Warrior's helm, mixed with the pine And with the waving poplar. In the midst, As in a favourite haunt, were flowers entwined; And there the sleeper lay: one pearl white hand— The violets rose to kiss its azure veins, Coloured with their own purity, beneath One cheek was as a pillow, and that one
Was flushed with crimson, while the other wore
A tint less warm, but not less beautiful- Two shades of blushing on the self-same rose; And through the tremulous shadow of the leaves Came two or three bright kisses from the sun, Wandering in light o'er her white brow; a shower Of rose leaves lay amid the raven curls
Of her long hair and on her neck. That morn Around her slender waist and graceful head She had bound new-blown buds. But all fair things Are very fragile, and each scattered bloom Had fallen from the loosened braid: even those Prisoners in the soft hand, which lay like snow Upon the grass, had half escaped; and there She slept amid the roses she had gathered.
And round the walls were pictures: some, calm scenes Of earth's green loveliness; and some, whose hues Were caught from faces in whose smile our life Is one of Paradise; and statues, whose white grace Is as a dream of poetry. But, hung Apart from all the rest, as if too dear For aught but solitude, was one,—it was The portrait of a lovely girl; the lips Were such as Summer kisses, when he first Touches the pure and rosy mouth of Spring; A languid smile was on them, as just curled By some soft thought, which spoke too in her eyes, Dark and bewildering, with light like that
Of an Italian midnight, when the clouds
Send forth their summer lightning, but yet filled With woman's tenderness. Those lips, those eyes, Had been voluptuous, melting as they were, But for the pale cheek, o'er which e'en a blush Had scarcely passed, it looked so innocent; And the white brow, with its dark parted hair Shading its purity; and the clear temples, Whose blue veins were half hidden by the braids Of the thick tresses, which, unfastened, fell Over the veiled bosom. The white dress
Just left the slender throat exposed, as fair, As graceful, as the cygnet's. Neither gems Nor gold, marred youth's sweet simpleness; but one Slight flower lay on her neck,—a green rosebud, Tinged with faint promise of its future bloom; And near it the young Painter leant his head, Bowed, as in bitter thought upon his hand ; Over his cheek there was a burning, red, Half passionate emotion, half disease,— And the damp lay on his white brow, and hung On his thick curls of auburn hair; his eyes, Blue as his native sky when it shines forth Amid the pauses of an April shower,
Seemed as they drank the Moon's light, with such bright And such wild glance they turned towards her ray.
He was a stranger in fair Italy:
He sought her kingdom, for it was a home
For genius and for beauty; it had been
His land of promise through the sunny dreams
Of his impassioned boyhood; he had come
With a rich store of burning thoughts, of hopes Like sunrise, vivid fancies, feelings wild, High energies, all that young talent has; And he had nourished them amid those shades Hallowed by memories of old, and still Kept sacred by their own green pleasantness,— Amid the glorious works of glorious men,- ́ Pictures alive with light, and stately domes Built for eternity,-music like hope,
So very sweet, and poetry, whose songs
Are Love's own words, until he dreamed that fame
Was a reality that he might win.
He dreamed but to awake with withered heart
And wasted health, and hopes like fallen stars,
Crushed and stained with the earth to which they fell.
Oh Genius! fling aside thy starry crown,
Close up thy rainbow wings, and on thy head
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