DIFFIDENCE of their own abilities, and fear, | opinions offered have left me somewhat in the which heightens the anxiety for public favour, are situation of the prince in the fairy tale, who, when pleas usually urged by the youthful writer: may in the vicinity of the magic fountain, found himI, while venturing for the first time to speak of self so distracted by the multitude of voices that myself, be permitted to say they far more truly be- directed his way, as to be quite incapable of delong to one who has had experience of both praise ciding which was the right path. I allude to the and censure. The feelings which attended the blame and eulogy which have been equally bepublication of the "Improvisatrice," are very dif- stowed on my frequent choice of love as my source ferent from those that accompany the present vo- of song. I can only say, that for a woman, whose lume. I believe I then felt little beyond hope, influence and whose sphere must be in the affecvague as the timidity which subdued it, and that tions, what subject can be more fitting than one excitement which every author must know: now which it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritualmine is a "farther looking hope ;" and the timidity ize, and exalt? I have always sought to paint it which apprehended the verdict of others, is now self-denying, devoted, and making an almost relideepened by distrust of my own powers. Or, to gion of its truth; and I must add, that such as I claim my poetical privilege, and express my mean- would wish to draw her, woman actuated by an ating by a simile, I should say, I am no longer one tachment as intense as it is true, as pure as it is who springs forward in the mere energy of exer- deep, is not only more admirable as a heroine, but cise and enjoyment; but rather like the Olympian also in actual life, than one whose idea of love is racer, who strains his utmost vigour, with the dis- that of light amusement, or at worst of vain mortant goal and crown in view. I have devoted my tification. With regard to the frequent applicawhole life to one object: in society I have but tion of my works to myself, considering that I sought the material for solitude. I can imagine sometimes pourtrayed love unrequited, then bebut one interest in existence,—that which has trayed, and again destroyed by death—may I hint filled my past, and haunts my future, the per- the conclusions are not quite logically drawn, as haps vain desire, when I am nothing, of leaving assuredly the same mind cannot have suffered such one of those memories at once a good and a glory. varied modes of misery. However, if I must have Believing, as I do, in the great and excellent influ- an unhappy passion, I can only console myself ence of poetry, may I hazard the expression of with my own perfect unconsciousness of so great what I have myself sometimes trusted to do? A a misfortune. I now leave the following poems to highly cultivated state of society must ever have their fate: they must speak for themselves. I for concomitant evils, that selfishness, the result of could but express my anxiety, an anxiety only inindolent indulgence; and that heartlessness at- creased by a popularity beyond my most sanguine tendant on refinement, which too often hardens dreams. while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must first soften, and that if I wished to purify I must first touch, I have ever endeavoured to bring forward grief, disappointment, the fallen leaf, the faded flower, the broken heart, and the early grave. Surely we must be less worldly, less interested, from this sympathy with the sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone can take part. And now a few words on a subject, where the variety of the
With regard to those whose former praise encouraged, their best recompense is the happiness they bestowed. And to those whose differing opinion expressed itself in censure, I own, after the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a criticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to benefit. I will conclude by apostrophizing the hopes and fears they excited, in the words of the Mexican king-" Ye have been the feathers of my wings."
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 turn'd to evil.
ANOTHER tale of thine! fair Italie
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:
What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee? Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt,
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 crown'd with palaces, thy halls
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls;
Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where
dwell
The rose and orange, summer's citadel;
Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air,
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 wings
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,
Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine :
Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines,
Lovely, though fallen,-for the ivy twines
Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane,
As still in some shape beauty would remain.
I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art
The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye,
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,
The promised land that haunts my dreaming But e'en amid its darkness and its crime,
Perchance it is as well thou art unknown:
I could not bear to lose what I have thrown
Of magic round thee,-but to find in thee
What hitherto I still have found in all-
Thou art not stamp'd with that reality
Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime,
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear :-
And hath the serpent brought its 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
Which makes our being's sadness, and its Answer the notes that wander sadly by.
But now, whenever I am mix'd too much
With worldly natures till I feel as such;—
(For these are as the waves that turn to stone,
Till feeling's keep their outward show alone)—
When wearied by the vain, chill'd 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 chain'd, 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 it bare?)—
And say not this is vain, in our cold world,
Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves unfurl'd:
"Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain,
Calling their earlier freshness back again.
The heart of vanity, the head of pride,
Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified ;
And we rise up less selfish, having known
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.
They stood beside the river, that young pair-
She 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 arch'd and raven line
Was very proud, but that was soften'd 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 bodice, and the skirt of blue
So short, the fairy ankle was in view;
The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve,
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 mark'd the rustic's lot:
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood-
The parting hour of love. And there they leant,
Mirror'd below in the clear element
That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung,
And colour'd blossoms that together clung-
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier,
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,
And answer'd by flush'd 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 after 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,—
The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone,
AMENAÏDE but felt she was alone.
The vow which soothed her, and the hope which
cheer'd,
The pride which nerved, with him had disap-
pear'd.
"LEONI, dear LEONI !"-'twas in vain :-
The mocking echo answer'd 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 lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more;
Now fever'd 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, AMENAÏDE, 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 woo'd the maiden's eye :— She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky, His father's battlement's 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." They did not dream that love like theirs could die, Wondering, she enters, strangers round her 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.
And kindly takes their 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 honours 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 honour, countess, mine,
The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her Loveliest, and last of ALFIORI's line.
Flash'd as the martial music floated by.
She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,-
It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed.
Fit for a palace was that lovely room,
Hung with the azure of an eastern loom,
And carpeted with velvet, where the flowers
Companion'd 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 tints which on the tulip 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-colour wander'd o'er the cheek,
Seem'd the chance beams from each dark eye
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 colour to her ivory arm!—
AMENAÏDE reclined. Awhile she lay,-
Then, as if movement hurried time away,
And gather'd up with diamonds,-few there
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
Enter'd 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-night-
The 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 link'd the saraband;
to 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 charm'd world, lovely, lonely, and apart,
Where it had seem'd to her as sin and shame
Aught there had enter'd, not in his dear name.
was a spell-touch'd hour. That gorgeous
hall,
She paced the room, gazed on each pictured face,——It
Then wreath'd the flowers,-then watch'd, as if to
trace
The evening close: again the couch was press'd,
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 return'd, with all war could confer
Of honourable 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 beseem
Her present rank, yet keep her early dream;
See her the worshipp'd of the courtly throng,
Sigh of each lip, and idol of each song;
Hear the fair flatteries offer'd, yet behold
Her courtesy so graceful, but so cold;
With perfume floating and with music's fall,
Light steps, and gentle laugh, and whispers
Was in their words or the sweet airs that fann'd
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
Were lost on the white neck when there they
And there were shapes, such as in pictures dwell;
It look'd like fairy land. With eager glance
She watch'd 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!
And know it was for him her heart's young throne But I must go and have my welcome paid."
Was ever kept, the lovely and the lone.
O pleasant was that night the toilet's careWhat broider'd robe to don, what gems to wear! Her hair was parted on her brow, each braid Black as the darkwing'd raven's darkest shade,
Alone AMENAÏDE stood in the shade,-
Alone! ay, utterly. A couch was nigh,
And there she sank-O, had it been to die!
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
Unlook'd-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!
She watch'd 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 gather'd at her side.
It was an evil feeling that which now
Flush'd on her cheek, and lighted up her brow-
Part bitterness, part vanity, part wo-
The passionate strife which pride and misery know;
A burning wish to make a vain regret
And steps were now approaching her: she In that false one, who now had best forget;
From off 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 lesson'd, and the lip be seal'd,
And wretchedness be, like the plague, conceal'd.
-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
To show LEONI how that she, the queen,
Made his fair EDITH nothing on the scene;
Her rival-hers-language has not a word
By woman's ear so utterly abhorr'd.
No marvel, for it robs her only part
Of sweet dominion-empire o'er the heart.
LEONI and his bride have left the hall. Why does that cheek grow pale, that dark eye
Why does that lip its wit, its smiling cease?—
My stars, thine eyes, which should be shining It only pass'd for beauty's gay caprice.
Making yon hall its equal; but to-night
You have, AMENAÏDE, a rival light.
She left the feast-but, O, not yet alone;
Many a cavalier has eager flown
Upon her gondola's home course to wait,
The English bride,-see round they crowd to And sigh farewell at her own palace gate.
Her maidens gather'd round. What more, yet
On the new loveliness her form displays.
Why, she should bear the name which once you To read the breast now throbbing to the core ! bore, She hurried not their task,-each silken braid
-The peasant countess,- it would suit her Of raven hair was in set order laid:
A moment, and the group were press'd 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 shunn'd to meet her eye,—
A moment's awkwardness,—but that pass'd by.
How much we give to other hearts our tone,
And judge of others' feelings by our own!
Himself has alter'd :-all he sought to do
Was to believe that she was alter'd too.
Her cheek was paler than 'twas wont to be,-
That was its round of midnight gayety:
But once she show'd her weakness,-when her hand
Strove vainly to unloose a glittering band,
It trembled like a leaf:-but that pass'd by;
Struggle she might, but no one heard her sigh;
And when her last good night was courteous said,
Never more queenlike seem'd that lofty head.
The last step died upon the marble stair,—
She sprang towards the door,-the bolt is there :—
She tried the spring, gave one keen look around,
Mutter'd" alone!" and dash'd her on the ground.
Corpselike she lay,-her dark hair wildly thrown
Far on the floor before her; white as stone,
Her smile less frequent, and her brow more As rigid stretch'd each hand, her face was
"Twas her new rank its stateliness that gave:
Close to the earth; and but the heaving vest
New friends press'd round,-their interview is Told of some pang the shuddering frame con
And he pass'd 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,
Join'd in their mirthfulness, and laugh'd aloud;
Was ready with gay converse,-that light mirth
Which like the meteor has from darkness birth:
She seem'd as stricken down by instant death.Sudden she raised her head, and gasp'd for
And nature master'd 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:
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