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Thine eye, long dimmed within thy living tomb,
Upon the festal sky once more may gaze:
Thy steps may wander 'mid the joyous bloom
Wherewith bright Summer all the earth arrays,
The green and glorious earth; how doubly fair
To those so long shut out from sunshine and fresh air!

'Yes, thou art free! But where is she whose love
Smiled on thine early years of happiness,
And, proudly rising every storm above,
Cheered thee in darkest danger and distress?
Whose lone devotion, in the after years
When thou wert torn from her, so nobly bore
Against the oppressor's might, with prayers and tears
Striving, 'mid woes and perils, to restore

The loved, and lost: O where is she? Gone down
To the cold grave with tried affection's martyr crown.

'Yes, thou art free, O faithful, true, and brave!
But is not thy lone spirit ever turning

Back to thy country, o'er the ocean wave?
Dost thou not feel the exile's weary yearning
For the dear home he never may behold?
Do not her radiant hills, her purple vines,
Her gorgeous fanes, her ivied temples old,
Her gleaming rivers, and her antique shrines,
In midnight visions float before thine eyes,
With all their train of sad, yet lovely memories?

'Houseless and desolate, but not forsaken,
Surely an inward peace hath blest thy lot,
And, though the beauty from thy life be taken,
Thou tread'st thy lonely path, repining not;
Waiting, with calm and trustful heart, the hour
When He who freed thee from thy prison cell,
And armed thy soul with strong enduring power,
Shall call thee hence in that bright land to dwell,
Where grief, and chains, and exile shall but seem
Like the dire phantoms of a half-forgotten dream.

'There no regret can cloud the golden day,
No dark remembrance mar the adoring song:
There love can know no change and no decay:
There none can do, and none can suffer wrong:
There doth the wanderer cease at last to roam :
And there, unto the weary, rest is given:
There, with the faithful few, shall be thy home,
Thou that with quenchless purpose thus hast striven
To free thy country from her coiling chain,

So bravely and so well, but yet, alas! in vain.

'In vain? Oh, not in vain! It cannot be
That noble hearts should vainly thus endure;
That like a gem cast on the stormy sea,
The bold, the true, the gentle, and the pure,
Should make, of liberty and love and life,
(All that they cherished, that they valued, most,)
A fruitless offering in the unequal strife,

A priceless treasure vainly, vainly lost!

It cannot be! The seed they sowed in tears,
In brightness shall spring up to life in after years.

Yes! from the dust in glory shalt thou start,
Dashing the spoiler's fetters proudly down,
Imperial Italy, fair Queen of art!

Again thy brow shall wear the laurel crown:
The voice, of joy and freedom shall arise
From thy victorious sons, by all their streams,
Again, unto thy soft and cloudless skies :

And thy rich sunlight, with its glowing beams,
Shall no more see thy children exiles, slaves,
But chainless as their own blue Adriatic waves.

Then, Confalonieri, then, thy name

Shall be a watchword in the glorious fight,
A thrilling trumpet-tone, a beacon flame
Kindling a thousand fires on every height.
The child shall lisp it from the mother's knee;
Each patriot spirit burn at that high word;
All hearts within the homesteads of the free,
Shall proudly thrill whene'er its sound is heard.
Best of thy country's heroes! Thy renown

E'en to the latest age shall pass in brightness down.'

We can conceive of scarcely any thing more intensely gratifying to a noble and susceptible mind, than receiving such a tribute of admiration and sympathy as this, from an ingenuous and gifted young lady. Our next specimen must be, a truly classical and richly picturesque little poem, written at the age of one and twenty; alas! one of the latest productions.

DELOS.

I.

'Lovely wert thou in thy rest
On the blue Egèan's breast;
Gleaming like a ruby stone
Set in evening's purple zone.
Lovely wert thou, when the morn,
On her rosy pinions borne,
Shedding brightness over earth,
Woke thee into life and mirth.

LETHE AND OTHER POEMS.

Lovely wert thou when the sun
His meridian height had won,
And a flood of living gold

O'er thy gorgeous temple rolled :
Lovely, when that glorious light
Faded into softer night;

And thy waters, to the moon,
Sang their lowly murmuring tune,

II.

'Looking down upon the main,
Stately rose thy marble fane,
With its regal colonnades
Gleaming through the laurel shades.
Many a sculptured form divine
Decked that rich and radiant shrine :
Many a treasure, costly, rare,
Brought from lands afar, was there.
Ever swept the breath of song
On thy perfume-winds along,
With a thousand melodies
Ringing through the sunny skies,
Cittern, dulcimer, and lute,
Clarion, lyre, and gentle flute :
Swelling, sinking, distant, nigh,
Floated that strange harmony:
Mid the rocks, and through the glade,
To the darkest, deepest shade ;
Through the gay and gloomy bowers,
With the odour of all flowers.

III.

Dark-eyed nymphs with rose-crowned hair,
As a painter's vision fair,

Through thy groves and gardens roved,
Or in graceful dances moved,
As, around some gentle queen,
In her loneliness serene,
Robes of festal pomp we see ;
Joy and beauty mantled thee.
Never was thy soft air stirred
By one sad or sorrowing word.
Voice of weeping never rose
To disturb thy bright repose.
Never might the gate of life,
Gate to woe, and care, and strife,
Ope to mortal, 'mid thy bloom.
And the portal of the tomb,
With its cold and awful gloom,

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Worn with seeking, thought, and care,
Feverish joy, and lone despair,
Almost sank to earth oppressed,

Yearning for a place of rest.'

The perfect beauty of these stanzas, considering the age of the writer, we cannot but regard as quite extraordinary. We shall now give one of the miscellaneous poems of unknown date, -a very unpretending production, but simple and touching.

THE ROSE AND THE PRISONER.

'It was now about the end of July: and the two or three roses, on the stunted plants of the platform, breathed forth such a rich perfume that I could not but stop to inhale it. I longed to pluck one of them. The rose was the favourite of my mother; but I resisted the temptation. They were sacred. My fellow-prisoners might enjoy them as fully as myself. They brought back, however, the memory of my boyhood, of that of my dear parent. A. ANDRYANI.'

VOL. XVII.

'Oh! desolate and drooping rose,
How mournfully thy buds unclose!
How sad is e'en thy regal bloom,
Amid this dreary dungeon-gloom!
'Yet, pale and faded as thou art,
Thou bringest, to my weary heart,
Sweet memories of former years,
Unstained by care, undimmed by tears.
Thou call'st my childish days to mind;
Those joyous days, long, long, ago;
When many a rosy wreath I twined

Amid my mother's locks to glow :
'When mirth and song and laughter dwelt
Amid our happy household band;
When pain or sorrow none had felt,

None captive pined in foreign land.

'Then, glad and free, in summer hours,
We roved at will, mid trees and flowers:
Far; where my land's own roses bloom,
With radiant hue and rich perfume.
'Alas! how changed, how faded, all
The sunny dreams thy buds recall!
An exile chained, whom have I now
To breathe of home? Thou, only thou!
'Come, charm me in my lonely cell!

Yet, no! I'll leave thee, on thy stem.
Others may love thee, rose, as well.

Then stay; and breathe of home to them.'

G G

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