LORENZO'S HISTORY.

I WAS betrothed from earliest youth
To a fair orphan, who was left
Beneath my father's roof and care,-
Of every other friend bereft :
An heiress, with her fertile vales,
Caskets of Indian gold and pearl;
Yet meck as poverty itself,

And timid as a peasant girl:
A delicate, frail thing, but made

For spring sunshine, or summer shade ;-
A slender flower, unmeet to bear
One April shower, so slight, so fair.

I loved her as a brother loves

His favorite sister:-and when war First called me from our long-shared home To bear my father's sword afar,

I parted from her, -not as one

Whose life and soul are wrung by parting: With death-cold brow and throbbing pulse, And burning tears like lifeblood starting. Lost in war dreams, I scarcely heard

The prayer that bore my name above : The "Farewell!" that kissed off her tears,

Had more of pity than of love!

I thought of her not with that deep,
Intensest memory love will keep
More tenderly than life. To me

She was but as a dream of home,-
One of those calm and pleasant thoughts
That o'er the soldier's spirit come;
Remembering him, when battle lowers,
Of twilight walks and fireside hours.
I came to thy bright FLORENCE when
The task of blood was done :

I saw thee! Had I lived before?
O, no! my life but then begun.
Ay, by that blush! the summer rose
Has not more luxury of light!
Ay, by those eyes! whose language is
Like what the clear stars speak at night,
Thy first look was a fever spell!-
Thy first word was an oracle

Which sealed my fate! I worshipped thee,
My beautiful, bright deity!
Worshipped thee as a sacred thing
Of Genius' high imagining;
But loved thee for thy sweet revealing
Of woman's own most gentle feeling,
I might have broken from the chain

Thy power, thy glory round me flang!
But never might forget thy blush-

The smile which on thy sweet lips hung!
I lived but in thy sight! One night

From thy hair fell a myrtle blossom;
It was a relic that breathed of thee:
Look! it has withered in my bosom !
Yet I was wretched, though I dwelt
In the sweet sight of Paradise:
A curse lay on me. But now now,
Thus smiled upon by those dear eyes,
Will I think over thoughts of pain.
I'll only tell thee that the line
That ever told Love's misery,
Ne'er told of misery like mine!

I wedded. I could not have borne
To see the young IANTHE blighted

By that worst light the spring can know-
Trusting affection ill requited!

O, was it that she was too fair,

Too innocent for this damp earth;
And that her native star above

Reclaimed again its gentle birth?
She faded. O, my peerless queen,
I need not pray thee pardon me
For owning that my heart then felt
For any other than for thee!

I bore her to those azure isles

Where health dwells by the side of spring;

And deemed their green and sunny vales,

And calm and fragrant airs, might bring Warmth to the cheek, light to the eye, Of her who was too young to die. It was in vain !-and, day by day, The gentle creature died away. As parts the odor from the roseAs fades the sky at twilight's closeShe passed so tender and so fair;

So patient, though she knew each breath Might be her last; her own mild smile Parted her placid lips in death. Her grave.s under southern skies; Green turf and flowers o'er it rise. O! nothing but a pale spring wreath Would fade o'er her who lies beneath! I gave her prayers-I gave her tearsI staid awhile beside her grave; Then led by Hope, and led by Love, Again I cut the azure wave. What have I more to say, my life!

But just to pray one smile of thine, Telling I have not loved in vain

That thou dost join these hopes of mine? Yes, smile, sweet love! our life will be As radiant as a fairy tale! Glad as the sky-lark's earliest songSweet as the sigh of the spring gale All, all that life will ever be, Shone o'er divinest love! by thee.

O, MOCKERY of happiness

Love now was all too late to save.
False Love! O what had you to do

With one you had led to the grave?
A little time I had been glad
To mark the paleness on my cheek;
To feel how, day by day, my step

Grew fainter, and my hand more weak
To know the fever of my soul

Was also preying on my frame: But now I would have given worlds

To change the crimson's hectic's flame For the pure rose of health; to live For the dear life that Love could give. -O, youth may sicken at its bloom, And wealth and fame pray for the tomb;But can love bear from love to part, And not cling to that one dear heart? I shrank away from death,-my tears Had been unwept in other years :But thus, in love's first ecstasy. Was it not worse than death to die? LORENZO! I would live for thee! But thou wilt have to weep for me! That sun has kissed the morning dews,— I shall not see its twilight close! That rose is fading in the noon,

And I shall not outlive that rose! Come, let me lean upon thy breast, My last, best place of happiest rest! Once more let me breathe thy sighsLook once more in those watching eye O! but for thee, and grief of thine, And parting, I should not repine! It is deep happiness to die, Yet live in Love's dear memory. Thou wilt remember me,--my name Is linked with beauty and with fame. The summer airs, the summer sky, The soothing spell of Music's sigh,Stars in their poetry of night, The silver silence of moonlight,The dim blush of the twilight hours, The fragrance of the bee-kissed flowersBut, more than all, sweet songs will be Thrice sacred unto Love and me. LORENZO! be this kiss a spell!

My first!- my last! FAREWELL! FAREWELL!

THERE is alone and stately hall, Its master dwells apart from all.

A wanderer through Italia's land,
One night a refuge there I found.
The lightning flash rolled o'er the sky,
The torrent rain was sweeping round:
These won me entrance. He was young,
The castle's lord, but pale like age;
His brow, as sculpture beautiful,

Was wan as grief's corroded page,
He had no words, he had no smiles,
No hopes: his sole employ to brood
Silently over his sick heart

In so. row and in solitude.
I saw the hall where, day by day,
He mused his weary life away;
It scarcely seemed a place for wo,

But rather like a genie's home.
Around were graceful statues ranged,
And pictures shone around the dome
But there was one-a loveliest one!-
One picture brightest of all there!
O! never did the painter's dream
Shape anything so gloriously fair!
It was a face!-the summer day
Is not more radiant in its light!
Dark flashing eyes, like the deep stars
Lighting the azure brow of night;
A blush like sunrise o'er the rose;

A cloud of raven hair, whose shade
Was sweet as evening's, and whose curls
Clustered beneath a laurel braid.
She leant upon a harp :-one hand

Wandered, like snow, amid the chords; The lips were opening with such life, You almost heard the silvery words. She looked a form of life and light,— All soul, all passion, and all fire; A priestess of Apollo's, when

The morning beams fall on her lyre;
A Sappho, or ere love had turned

The heart to stone where once it burned.
But by the picture's side was placed
A funeral urn, on which was traced
The heart's recorded wretchedness;-
And on a tablet hung above,
Was 'graved one tribute of sad words-
"LORENZO TO HIS MINSTREL LOVE!"

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Those subtle poisons which made science crime,
And knowledge a temptation; could we doubt
One moment the great curse upon our world,
We must believe, to find that even good
May thus be turned to evil.

ANOTHER tale of thine! fair Italie

What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee?
I do not know thy language,-that is still
Like the mysterious music of the rill ;—
And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky,
Where the sun hath his immortality;
Thy cities crowned with palaces, thy halls
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls;
Thy fountain's silver sweep, thy groves, where dwell
The rose and orange, summer's citadel;

Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air,

Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh there;
Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines,
Lovely, though fallen, for the ivy twines
Its graceful wreath around each ruined fane,
As still in some shape beauty would remain.
I know them not, yet Italie, thou art

The promised land that haunts my dreaming heart.
Perchance it is as well thou art unknown:

I could not bear to lose what 1.ave thrown
Of magic round thee.-but to find in thee
What hitherto I still have found in all—
Thou art not stamped with that reality

Which makes our being's sadness, and its thral.'
whenever I am mixed too much

But

now,

With worldly natures till I feel as such;—

(For these are as the waves that turn to stone,
Till feelings keep their outward show alone)--
When wearied by the vain, chilled by the cold,
Impatient of society's set mould-

The many meannesses, the petty cares,
The long avoidance of a thousand snares,
The lip that must be chained, the eye so taught
To image all but its own actual thought;
(Deceit is this world's passport: who would dare
However pure the breast, to lay 't bare ?)—
When worn, my nature struggling with my fate,
Checking, my love, but, O, still more my hate;—
(Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem
To those who scorn, at least care not for them:
Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt,
I have no power to make my hatred felt;
Or, I should say, my sorrow:-I have borne
So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn,
I could but weep, and tears may not redress,
They only fill the cup of bitterness)-
Wearied of this, upon what eager winds
My spirit turns to thee, and birdlike flings
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee,
My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie.
To me thou art a vision half divine,

Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine:
The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian die,
The wild bee loves them not more tenderly;
Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem-set hall,
Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall;
Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil
Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,
But e'en amid its darkness and its crime,
Touched with the native beauty of such clime,
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear:-
And hath the serpent brought his curse even here?
Such is the tale that haunts me: I would fain
Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain;
And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye
Answer the notes that wander sadly by.
And say not this is vain, in our cold world,
Where feelings sleep like withered leaves unfurled.
'Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain,
Calling their earlier freshness back again.
The heart of vanity, the head of pride,
Touched by such sorrow, are half purified;
And we rise up less selfish, having known
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.

I.

They stood beside the river, that young pairShe with her eyes cast down, for tears were there, Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed; He murmuring those sweet words so often said By parting lover, still as fondly spoken As his could be, the only ones not broken. The girl was beautiful; her forehead high Was white as are the marble fanes that lie On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine Where the mind spoke; the arched and raven line Was very proud, but that was softened now, Only sad tenderness was on her brow. She wore the peasant dress,-the snowy lawn Closely around her whiter throat was drawn, A crimson boddice, and the skirt of blue So short, the fairy ankle was in view; The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeves, But the small hand was snow; around her hair A crimson net, such as the peasants weave, Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare. She wore the rustic dress, but there was not Aught else in her that marked the rustic's lot: Her bearing seemed too stately, though subdued By all that makes a woman's gentlest moodThe parting hour of love. And there they leant, Mirrored below in the clear element That rolled along, with wild shrubs overhung, And colored blossoms that together clungThat peasant girl, that high-born cavalier, Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear, And answered by flushed cheek, and downcast eye, And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh.

Young, loving, and beloved,-these are brief words,
And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness: the tone
May die away and be no longer known

In the harsh wisdom brought by alter years,
Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears,
And makes the misery of life's troubled scene ;-
Still it is much to think that it has been.
They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,-
Feelings forsaking us as does our youth,-

They did not dream that love like theirs could die,
And such belief half makes eternity.
Yes, they were parting; still the fairy hope
Had in their clear horizon ample scope
For her sweet promises without the showers
That are their comrades in life's after hours.
They parted trustingly; they did not know
The vanity of youthful trust and vow;
And each believed the other,-for each read

In their own hearts the truth of what each said.
The dews are drying rapidly :-away,

Young warrior! those far banners chide thy stay.
Hark! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,-
His first of fields, he must not be behind.

The maiden's cheek flushed crimson, and her eye
Flashed as the martial music floated by.
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,-
It dashed across the plain with arrowy speed.
The beat of heart, the flush of cheek are gone,
AMENAIDE but felt she was alone.

The vow which soothed her, and the hope which cheered,
The pride which nerved, with him had disappeared.
"LEONI, dear LEONI!"-'twas in vain :-
The mocking echo answered her again.

-It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst;
It is the lingering days of after care,
That try the wasted spirit most to bear.
Now listless, languid, as the world had left
Nothing to interest, of him bereft;

Now lulled by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more;
Now fevered by anxiety, for rife

Are fears when fancy calls them into life;
And then that nameless dread of coming wo,
Which only those who've felt it ere can know;
These still have been in absence, still will be,
And these, AMENA:DE, were all for thee.

The valley in a summer twilight lay-
That fairy confine of the night and day-
When leant AMENAÏDE behind the shade
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made,
'Scaped from her nurse and each consoling phrase
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise.
The room was small and dark; but when the wind
Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind,
A crimson beauty wooed the maiden's eye:
She looked and saw, where, dark against the sky,
His father's battlements rose on the air;-
Alas, how haughty and how high they were!
An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child,
O, how could hope have ever so beguiled!

"AMENAÏDE!" her kind old nurse's voice;
"Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice."
Wondering, she enters,-strangers round her stand,
And kindly takes her lordly chief her hand.
"So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame
To tell thee, maiden of another name.

In the wild troubles which have rent our state
Thy noble father met an exile's fate :-
Nay, not that anxious look; he is no more,
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore
His honors to his child: I was aware,
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care,
His daughter lived; and dear the task to me
To bring these words, and let AREZZI be
The first to greet and honor, countess, mine,
Loveliest, and last of ALFIORI's line.

II.

Fit for a palace was that lovely room, Hang with the azure of an eastern loor,

And carpeted with velvet, where the flowers
Companioned those whereon the April hours
Had shed their beauty; numbers stood around
Of vases where each varying hue was found,
From the white myrtle-bud and lily-bell,
Like pearls that in the ocean waters dwell,
To those rich teints which on the tuiip lie,
Telling their southern birth and sunny sky
The wine-cups of the sun :-each silken blind
Waved to and fro upon the scented wind,
Now closing till the twilight-haunted room
Was in an atmosphere of purple gloom,
First scarcely letting steal one crimson ray,
Then flung all open to the glowing day.
Pictures were hung above; how more than fair!
The changing light made almost life seem there.
A faint rose-color wandered o'er the cheek,
Seemed the chance beams from each dark eye to break
And you could deem each braided auburn wave
Moved, as its gold the glancing sunlight gave.
And fitting mistress had the charmed scene:
Leant, like a beautiful and eastern queen,
Upon a purple couch-how soft and warm
Clung the rich color to her ivory arm!—
AMENAIDE reclined. Awhile she lay,-
Then, as if movement hurried time away,
She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face,---
Then wreathed the flowers, then watched, as if to trees
The evening close: again the couch was pressed,
But feverish, restless, more for change than rest:
And yet all this was only the excess

Of overmuch impatient happiness.
Many a weary hour and day had past

For that young countess,-this day was the last.
He was returned, with all war could confer
Of honorable name, to home and her.
LEONI Would to-night be in the hall
Where Count AREZZI held his festival,
Would hear her history; how there was now
Nothing to chain the heart or check the vow.
-And must they meet first in a careless crowd?
This was a moment's grief; though she felt proud
That he should see how well she could bescem
Her present rank, yet keep her early dream;
See her the worshipped of the courtly throng,
Sigh of each lip, and idol of each song;
Hear the fair flatteries offered, yet behold
Her courtesy so graceful, but so cold;

And know it was for him her heart's young throne
Was ever kept, the lovely and the lone.

O pleasant was that night the toilet's careWhat broidered robe to don, what gems to wear! Her hair was parted on her brow, each braid Black as the dark-winged raven's darkest shade, And gathered up with diamonds,—few there were Just stars to light the midnight of her hair. Well did the sweeping robe of emerald green, Wrought in rich gold, suit with her stately mien. "How beautiful she looks this evening!" burst From every lip, when that fair countess first Entered AREZZI's hall: her heart's content To every lighted look its lustre lent. Her beauty's fault had been, it was too cold; Features too tranquil in their perfect mould, A cheek somewhat too pale; but not to-nightThe eye was sparkling, and the cheek was bright. Gently she glided to a balustrade, Where jessamine a pleasant shadow made; It raised no marvel; never had her hand With its white beauty linked the saraband; And seldom did she join the converse gay, Where the light flattery gains its gilded way; They seldom won more than a few cold words, As when unskilful hands awake the chords Of some lorn lute, the music of whose tone Lives for one touch, and only for that one. She dwelt within the circle of her heart, A charmed world, lovely, lonely, and apart, Where it had seemed to her as sin and shame Aught there had entered, not in his dear name.

-It was a spell-touched hour. That gorgeous hall
With perfumes floating and with music's fall,

Light steps, and gentle laugh, and whispers bland,—
Was in their words or the sweet airs that fanned
The beauty's cheek into a redder rose ?—
And starry eyes, like what the clear night shows,
But wandering ones; and there were golden curls
Like sudden sunshine; and dark braids, whose pearls
Were lost on the white neck when there they fell;
And there were shapes, such as in pictures dweli;
It looked like fairy land. With eager glance
She watched the door, and counted every dance;
Then time grew long, hope caught a shade of fear-
"LEONI-but they said he would be here!"
When sudden came AREZZI to her side,-
"Look there, the Count LEONI and his bride!
She with the violet wreath in her bright hair;
Sooth but to say, that English bride is fair!
But I must go and have my welcome paid."
Alone AMENAÏDE stood in the shade,-
Alone! ay, utterly. A couch was nigh,
And there she sank-O, had it been to die!

IV.

Alas for the young heart thus early thrown
Back on itself, the unloved and the lone!
For this should be the lesson of long years,
The weary knowledge taught and traced by tears,
Till even those are frozen, and we grow
Cold as the grave that yawns for us below:
But this was like those sudden blasts that fling
Unlooked-for winter on the face of spring,-
And worst wo for the heart, whose early fate
Leaves it so young, and, O, so desolate.
She had one feeling left-it was of pride-
O, misery, how much she had to hide!
And steps were now approaching her: she sprung
From of the couch, and every nerve was strung
For that worst rack, the rack of outward show,
Still haunts such vanity the deepest wo.
The heart may swell to bursting, but the while
The features wear the seeming of a smile:
The eye be lessened, and the lip be sealed,
And wretchedness be, like the plague, concealed.
-It was the Count AREZZI: "What still here!—
Come, thou wild dreamer of another sphere,
I must shut out the sky, if thus it share
My stars, thine eyes, which should be shining there,
Making yon hall its equal; but to-night
You have, AMENAÏDE, a rival light.

The English bride,-see round they crowd to gaze
On the new loveliness her form displays.

Why, she should bear the name which once you bore,
-The peasant countess,-it would suit her more."
A moment, and the group were pressed aside,

She stood before LEONI and his bride.

He knew her history, and each met prepared;
Cold looks were given, careless converse shared;
At first LEONI shunned to meet her eye,-

A moment's awkwardness,-but that passed by.
How much we give to other hearts our tone,
And judge of others' feelings by our own!
Himself has altered: all he sought to do
Was to believe that she was altered too.
Her cheek was paler than 'twas wont to be,--
That was its round of midnight gayety:

Her smile less frequent, and her brow more grave,—
Twas her new rank its stateliness that gave:
New friends pressed round,—their interview is o'er,—
And he passed on, to think of it no more;
And she to seem as thoughtless. Till to-night,
Like some fair planet in its own far light,
She shone apart; to-night she sought the crowd,
Joined in their mirthfulness, and laughed aloud;
Was ready with gay converse, that light mirth
Which like the meteor has from darkness birth:
She watched her circle,-ready smile or sneer,—
Sneers for the absent ones, smiles for the near,
Till every other hall sent forth its tide,
And half the guests were gathered at her side.
It was an evil feeling that which now

Flashed on her cheek, and lighted up her brow

LEONI and his bride have left the hall.

Why does that cheek grow pale, that dark eye fal?
Why does that lip its wit, its smiling cease?

It only passed for beauty's gay caprice.
She left the feast-but O, not yet alone;
Many a cavalier has eager flown

Upon her gondola's home course to wait,
And sigh farewell at her own palace gate.

Her maidens gathered round. What more, yet m
To read the breast now throbbing to the core?
She hurried not their task,-each silken braid
Of raven hair was in set order laid:
But once she showed her weakness,-when her ha
Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band,
It trembled like a leaf:-but that passed by;
Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh,
And when her last good night was courteous said,
Never more queenlike seemed that lofty head.
The last step died upon the marble stair,-
She sprang toward the door,-the bolt is there :-
She tried the spring, gave one keen look around,
Muttered" alone!" and dashed her on the ground.
Corpselike she lay,—her dark hair wildly thrown
Far on the floor before her; white as stone,
As rigid stretched each hand, her face was pressed
Close to the earth; and but the heaving vest
Told of some pang the shuddering frame confessed,
She seemed as stricken down by instant death.-
Sudden she raised her head, and gasped for breath;
And nature mastered misery. She sought,
Panting, the air from yonder lattice brought.
Ah, there is blood on that white lip and brow!—
She struggles still-in vain-she must weep now.
She wept, childlike, till sleep began to press
Upon her eyes, for very weariness.

She sleeps!-so sleeps the wretch beside the stake:
She sleeps!-how dreadful from such sleep to wake!

VI.

She was both proud and cold: not hers the heart Easy to lure, and ready to depart

A trifle, toy-but that fair countess gave
No common gift when she became a slave;
And only did she hold her gift redeemed,
By that high worthiness she had but dreamed.

A peasant, yet she felt his equal still;

And when her lofty state beseemed her will,
It was such pride, such pleasure, to have known
LEONI'S love was for herself alone.
And in her young romances loftier view,
One touch of vanity might mingle too.
It was the triumph of her lowlier state,
She had been even then a noble's mate.
AMENAÏDE had many faults; her youth
Had seen too soon life's bitterness and truth
The cutting word, the cold or scornful look,
All that her earlier days had had to brook-
The many slights the humble one receives-
Lay on her memory like withered leaves;
And homage from the crowd, and lovers' praise,
Were all too apt disgust and doubt to raise.
There was a something wayward in her mood;
She left her heart too much to solitude:
For kindly thoughts are social; but she held
A scornful creed, and sympathy repelled.
That sullen barrier had one gentle break-
She loved, she loved, and for LEONI's sake
Believed there were some angel steps on earth :--
As truth that keeps the promise of its birth;

As faith that will not change, that will not tire,
And deems its gold the purer for the fire.
Her love was all her nature's better part,
The confidence, the kindness of her heart,
The source of all the sweet or gentle there :
But this was past-what had it left!-despair!

VII.

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with rose :-
Can sorrow be upon such gales as those?
Yes, for it waked the countess. Up she sprung,
Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung
By the verandah, and that open, too;
Her hair was heavy with the weight of dew;
Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised
Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed.
It was her own fair room,-some frightful dream,
But indistinct, she struggled with a scream :
Her eye has caught a mirror,-that pale face,-
Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace
Of blood; its stain is on her tangled hair,
Which shroudlike hides the neck that else were bare.
Around that neck there is a fragile chain,
And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain:
LEONI's gift,-its slight gold links are broken,—
So are the vows of which it was the token.
Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour,
When grief and consciousness assert their power;
When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain
Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again;
Then know 'tis not illusion of the night
And sicken at the cold and early light?

How ever shall we pass the weary day,
When thus we shudder at its opening ray?
She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around,
In wonder at the contrast which she found.
The walls were faintly covered with the bloom

Which comes when morn has struggled through the gloom,

And blushes for success; the silken veil

Of the blue hangings seemed to catch the gale,
Then keep its sweetness prisoner: on the floor
The Persian loom had spread its velvet store:
Vases stood round, each carved with such fine art,
The flowers that filled seemed of themselves a part:
A sandal lute lay on an inlaid stand,
Whose rich wrought ivory spoke its Indian land;
Shells of bright colors, foreign toys of gold,
And crystals wrought in many a curious mould:
Pictures, a prince's ransom in their worth;
Small alabaster statues-all that earth

Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy,
Loathing she turned. "Yet what a wretch am I?
This must not be !-stained cheek and fevered brow
Too much the secret of my soul avow.
Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep
What burning tears AMENAÏDE could weep.
O, never let LEONI know the worst;
'Tis well if he believe I changed the first.
Too much e'en to myself has been revealed,
-And thus be every trace of tears concealed."
She sought the alcove where the fountain played,
And washed from lip and cheek their crimson shade,
And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls
Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls
The waters left, as if in pity shed;

She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed;
But easier far had been the rack, the wheel:-
When hath the body felt what mind can feel!

VIII.

The weary day passed on-night came again AMENAÏDE has joined the glittering train; Self-torturer-self-deceiver-cold and high, the said it was to mock the curious eye. Juch strength is weakness. Was it not to be Where still, LEONI, she might gaz on thee -She heard the history of his English bride A patient nurse at her pale mother's side, LEONI saw her first:-that mother's hand (A stranger she and wanderer in the land)

Gave the sweet orphan to his care, and here
Was all to soften, all that could endear.
Together wept they o'er the funeral stone,
His the sole heart she had to lean upon.
Now months had passed away, and he was come
To bring his beautiful, his dear one home.
Her beauty was like morning's, breathing, bright,
Eyes glittering first with tears, and then with light,
And blue, too glad to be the violet's blue,
But that which hangs upon it, lucid dew,—
Its first clear moment, ere the sun has burst
The azure radiance which it kindled first;—
A cheek of thousand blushes; golden hair,
As if the summer sunshine made it fair :
A voice of music, and such touching smile,
AMENAÏDE sighed, "Well might they beguile!”
Love, what a mystery thou art!-how strange
Thy constancy, yet still more so thy change!
How the same love, born in the self-same hour,
Holds over different hearts such different power;
How the same feeling lighted in the breast
Makes one so wretched, and makes one so blest;
How one will keep the dream of passion born
In youth with all the freshness of its morn;
How from another will thine image fade!
Far deeper records on the sand are made.
-Why hast thou separate being? why not die
At once in both, and not leave one to sigh,
To weep, to rave, to struggle with the chains
Pride would fling off, but memory retains?
There are remembrances that will not vanish,-
Thoughts of the past we would but can not banish:
As if to show how impotent mere will:
We loathe the pang and yet must suffer still:
For who is there can say they will forget?
-It is a power no science teaches yet.

O love, how sacred thy least words should be,
When on them hangs such abject misery!

IX.

The fountain's music murmured through the grove,
Like the first plaint that sorrow teaches love;
The orange boughs shut out the sultry sky,
While their rich scent, as passed the countess by,
Came homagelike. For hours that chestnut tree-
The only one that grew there wont to be
Her favorite summer seat; but now she paced
Hurriedly, though 'twas noon; her memory traced
Her galling wrongs, and many an evil thought
Envy and hatred in her bosom wrought.
She felt LEONI had not loved till now;
Hers was but youthful phantasy's light vow.
Had he not trifled with her?-She, the proud,
The cold, had of such mocking suit allowed.
Her heart was wrung, and worse, her pride was bowed
She hears a step: who is it dares intrude
On this her known and guarded solitude?
She sees an aged Jew; a box he bore
Filled with gay merchandise and jewelled store.
Ere she could speak, he spread before her eyes
Those glittering toys that loveliest ladies prize:-
"Fair dame, in sooth so fair thou seemest to be,
That almost it is vain to offer thee
The many helps for meaner beauty made;
But yet these gems would light that dark hair's shade:
Well would these pearls around that white throat show
Each purple vein that wanders through its snow."
Angrily turned the countess,-"Fool, away!”.
"So young, so fair, has vanity no sway?
But I have things most curious, and 'mid these
Somewhat may chance your wayward fancy please."
He took a bracelet,-'twas of fine wrought gok,
And twisted as a serpent, whose Lithe fold
Curled round the arm-he spoke in whispering tone-
"Here, lady, look at this, I have but one:
Here, press this secret spring; it lifts a lid,-
Beneath there is the subtlest poison hid:

I come from Venice; of the wonders there,
There is no wonder like this bracelet rare.'
She started-evil thoughts, at first repressed,
Now struggled like a storm within her breast.