Poems | Project Gutenberg

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, translated and original, by Elizabeth (E. F.) Ellet

Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

POEMS.

Many of the following poems have appeared, within the last two years, in different periodical publications, and are now, by permission, inserted in this collection.

The tragedy at the end of the volume, is founded upon an incident well known in the history of Venice, which has formed the material for various works of fiction. Niccolini has written a classic play upon the subject, of which the author of this piece has availed herself in part of the first scene of the first act, and in a few occasional passages of scene first of the fifth act. The conduct of the plot, and the leading incidents, differ materially from those of Niccolini.

The author takes this opportunity to render her grateful acknowledgments to the distinguished lady, Miss Phillips, who sustained the part of the heroine; and to whose talents and exertions the play was indebted for its success in representation.

Beneath the cypress shade, or sculptured urn

By fond tears watered, is the sleep of death

Less heavy?—When for me the sun no more

Shall shine on earth, to bless with genial beams

This beauteous race of beings animate—

When bright with flattering hues the coming hours

No longer dance before me—and I hear

No more, regarded friend, thy dulcet verse,

Nor the sad gentle harmony it breathes—

When mute within my breast the inspiring voice

Of youthful poesy, and love, sole light

To this my wandering life—what guerdon then

For vanished years will be the marble reared

To mark my dust amid the countless throng

Wherewith the Spoiler strews the land and sea?

Thus is it, Pindemonte! Man’s last friend,

Hope, flies the tomb; and dim forgetfulness

Wraps in his rayless night all mortal things:

Change after change, unfelt, resistless, takes

[Pg 14]

Its tribute—and o’er man, his sepulchres,

His being’s lingering traces, and the relics

Of earth and heaven, time in mockery treads.

Yet why hath man, from immemorial years,

Yearned for the illusive power that may retain

The parted spirit on life’s threshold still?

Doth not the buried live, e’en though to him

The day’s enchanted melody is mute,

If yet life’s music with fond memories

He wake in friendly breasts? Oh! ’tis from heaven,

This sweet communion of abiding love!

A boon celestial! By its charm we hold

Full oft a solemn converse with the dead;

If yet the pious earth, that nourished once

Their ripening youth, in her maternal breast

Yielding a last asylum, shall protect

Their sacred relics from insulting storms,

Or step profane—if some secluded stone

Preserve their name, and flowery verdure wave

Its fragrant shade above their honored dust.

But he who leaves no heritage of love,

Is heedless of an urn; and if he look

Beyond the grave, his spirit wanders lost

Among the wailings of infernal shores;

Or hides itself beneath the sheltering wings

Of God’s forgiving mercy; while his bones

Moulder unrecked of on the desert sand,

Where never loving woman pours her prayer,

Nor solitary pilgrim hears the sigh

Which mourning nature sends us from the tomb.

New laws now banish from our yearning gaze

The hallowed sepulchres, and envious strip

Their honors from the dead. Without a tomb

Thy votary sleeps, Thalia! he who sung

[Pg 15]

To thee beneath his humble roof, and reared

His bays to weave a coronal for thee.

And thou didst wreathe with gracious smiles his lay

That stung the Sardanapalus of our land,[2]

Whose grovelling soul loved but to hear the lowing

Of cattle pasturing in Ticino’s fields,

His source of boasted wealth. Oh, muse inspired!

Where art thou? No ambrosial air I breathe

Betokening thy blest presence, in these bowers

Where now I sigh for home. Here wert thou wont

To smile on him beneath yon linden tree,

That now with scattered foliage seems to weep

Because it droops not o’er the old man’s urn

Who once sought peace beneath its cooling shade.

Perchance thou, goddess, wandering among graves

Unhonor’d, vainly seek’st the spot where rests

Parini’s sacred head! The city now

To him no space affords within her walls,

Nor monument, nor votive line. His bones

Perchance lie sullied with some felon’s blood,

Fresh from the scaffold that his crimes deserved.

See’st thou the lone wild dog among the tombs

Howling with famine, roam—raking the dust

From mouldering bones—while from the skull through which

The moonlight streams, the noisome hoopoe flies,

And flaps his hateful wings above the field

Spread with funereal crosses—screaming shrill,

As if to curse the light the pious stars

Shed on neglected burial-grounds?—In vain

Dost thou invoke upon thy poet’s dust

The sweet distilling dews of silent night:

There spring no flowers on graves by human praise

Or tears of love unhallowed!

From the days

When first the nuptial feast, and judgment seat,

And altar, softened our untutor’d race,

And taught to man his own and others’ weal,

[Pg 16]

The living treasured from the bleaching storm

And savage brute, those sad and poor remains

By nature destined to a lofty fate.

Then tombs became the witnesses of pride,

And altars for the young: thence gods invoked,

Uttered their solemn answers; and the oath

Sworn on the father’s dust was thrice revered.

Hence the devotion, which with various rites,

The warmth of patriot virtue, kindred love,

Transmits us through the countless lapse of years.

Not in those times did stones sepulchral pave

The temple floors—nor fumes of shrouded corpses,

Mixed with the altar’s incense, smite with fear

The suppliant worshipper—nor cities frown

Ghastly with sculptured skeletons—while leaped

Young mothers from their sleep in wild affright,

Shielding their helpless babes with feeble arm,

And listening for the groans of wandering ghosts,

Imploring vainly from their impious heirs

Their gold bought masses.—But in living green

Cypress and stately cedar spread their shade

O’er unforgotten graves, scattering in air

Their grateful odors; vases rich received

The mourners’ votive tears. There pious friends

Enticed the day’s pure beam to gild the gloom

Of monuments—for man his dying eye

Turns ever to the sun; and every breast

Heaves its last sigh toward the departing light!

There fountains flung aloft their silvery spray,

Watering sweet amaranths and violets

Upon the funeral sod; and he who came

To commune with the dead, breathed fragrance round,

Like bland airs wafted from Elysian fields.

Sublime and fond illusion! This endears

The rural burial place to British maids,

Who wander there to mourn a mother lost,

[Pg 17]

Or supplicate the hero’s safe return,

Who of its mast the hostile ship despoiled,

To scoop from it his own triumphal bier.[3]

Where slumbers the high thirst of glorious deeds,

And wealth and fear are ministers to life,

Unhallowed images of things unseen,

And idle pomp, usurp the place of groves

And mounds. The rich, the learned, the vulgar great,

Italia’s pride and ornament, may boast

Enduring tombs in costly palaces,

With their sole praise—ancestral names—inscribed.

For us, my friend, be quiet couch prepared,

Where fate, for once, may weary of his storms,

And friendship gather from our urn, no treasure

Of sordid gold, but wealth of feeling warm,

And models of free song!

Yes—Pindemonte!

The aspiring soul is fired to lofty deeds

By great men’s monuments—and they make fair

And holy to the pilgrim’s eye, the earth

That has received their trust. When I beheld

The spot where sleeps enshrined that noble genius[4]

Who, humbling the proud sceptres of earth’s kings,

Stripped thence the illusive wreaths, and showed the nations

What tears and blood defiled them—when I saw

His mausoleum,[5] who upreared in Rome

A new Olympus to the Deity—

And his,[6] who ’neath heaven’s azure canopy

Saw worlds unnumbered roll, and suns unmoved

Irradiate countless systems—treading first

For Albion’s son, who soared on wings sublime,

The shining pathways of the firmament—

Oh! blest art thou, Etruria’s queen! I cried—

For thy pure airs, so redolent of life,

And the fresh streams thy mountain summits pour

In homage at thy feet. In thy blue sky

[Pg 18]

The glad moon walks—and robes with silver light

Thy vintage-smiling hills; and valleys fair,

Studded with domes and olive groves, send up

To heaven the incense of a thousand flowers.

Thou, Florence, first didst hear the song divine

That cheered the Ghibelline’s indignant flight;[7]

And thou the parents and sweet tongue didst give

To him, the chosen of Calliope,[8]

Who Love with purest veil adorning—Love

That went unrobed in elder Greece and Rome—

Restored him to a heavenly Venus’ lap.

Yet far more blest, that in thy fane repose

Italia’s buried glories! all, perchance,

She e’er may boast! since o’er the barrier frail

Of Alpine rocks the o’erwhelming tide of fate

Hath swept in mighty wreck her arms—her wealth—

Altars—and country—and save memory—all!

Where from past fame springs hope of future deeds,

In daring minds, for Italy enslaved

Draw we our auspices. Around these tombs

In thought entranced, Alfieri wandered oft.

Indignant at his country, here he strayed

O’er Arno’s desert plain, and looked abroad

With silent longing on the field and sky:

And when no living aspect soothed his grief,

Turned to the voiceless dead; while on his brow

There sat the paleness, with the hope, of death.

With them he dwells for ever! Here his bones

Murmur a patriot’s love.

Oh, truly speaks

A god from this abode of pious rest!

The same that fired of old in Grecian bosoms

Hatred of Persian foes at Marathon,

Where Athens consecrates her heroes gone.

The mariner since, whose white sails woo the winds

Before Eubœa’s isle, through midnight deep

Hath seen the lightning flash of gleaming casques,

[Pg 19]

And swift encountering brands; seen blazing pyres

Roll forth their volumed vapors—phantom warriors

Begirt with steel, and striding to the fight:

While in night’s silence, o’er the distant shores,

From those tumultuous phalanxes was borne

The clang of arms—and trumpet’s hoarse response—

The tramp of rushing steeds, with hurrying hoofs

Above the helmed dead—and mingling wild,

Wails of the dying—hymns of victory—

And high o’er all, the Fates’ mysterious chant.[9]

Happy, my friend, who in thine early years

Hast crossed the wide dominion of the winds!

If e’er the pilot steered thy wandering bark

Beyond the Egean isles, thou heardst the shores

Of Hellespont resound with ancient deeds;

And the proud surge exult, that bore of old

Achilles’ armor to Rhetœum’s shore

Where Ajax sleeps.[10] To souls of generous mould

Death righteously awards the meed of fame:

Nor subtle wit, nor kingly favor gave

The perilous spoils to Ithaca—when waves

Stirred to wild fury by infernal gods,

Rescued the treasures from the shipwrecked bark.

For me, whom years and love of high renown

Impel through far and various lands to roam,

The muses, ever waking in my breast

Sad thoughts, bid me invoke the heroic dead.

They sit and guard the sepulchres:—and when

Time with cold wing sweeps tombs and fanes to ruin,

The gladdened desert echoes with their song,

And its loud harmony subdues the silence

Of noteless ages.

Yet on Ilium’s plain,

Where now the harvest waves, to pilgrim eyes

Devout, gleams starlike an eternal shrine.

Eternal for the nymph espoused by Jove,

[Pg 20]

Who bore her royal lord the son whence sprung

Troy’s ancient city and Assaracus,

The fifty sons of Priam’s regal line,

And the wide empire of the Latin race.

She, listening to the Fates’ resistless call

That summoned her from vital airs of earth

To choirs Elysian, of Heaven’s sire besought

One boon in dying.—“Oh! if e’er to thee,”

She cried—“this fading form, these locks were dear,

And the soft cares of love—since destiny

Denies me happier lot, guard thou at least

That thine Electra’s fame in death survive!”

She prayed and died. Then shook the Thunderer’s throne,

And bending in assent, the immortal head

Showered down ambrosia from celestial locks

To sanctify her tomb.—Ericthon there

Reposes; there the dust of Ilus lies.

There Trojan matrons with dishevelled hair

Sought vainly to avert impending fate

From their doomed lords. There, too, Cassandra stood,

O’erfraught with Deity, and told the ruin

That hung o’er Troy—and poured her wailing song

To solemn shades—and led the children forth—

And taught to youthful lips the fond lament.

Sighing she said—“If e’er the gods permit

Your safe return from Greece, where, exiled slaves,

Your hands shall feed your haughty conquerors’ steeds,

Your country ye will seek in vain! Yon walls

By mighty Phœbus reared, shall cumber earth

In smouldering ruins. Yet the gods of Troy

Shall hold their dwelling in these tombs;—Heaven grants

One proud last gift—in grief a deathless name.

Ye cypresses and palms! by princely hands

Of Priam’s daughters planted! ye shall grow,

Watered full soon, alas! by widows’ tears!

Guard ye my fathers! He who shall withhold

The impious axe from your devoted trunks,

[Pg 21]

Shall feel less bitterly his stroke of grief,

And touch the shrine with not unworthy hand.

Guard ye my fathers! One day shall ye mark

A sightless wanderer ’mid your ancient shades:

Groping among your mounds, he shall embrace

The hallowed urns, and question of their trust.

Then shall the deep and caverned cells reply

In hollow murmur, and give up the tale

Of Troy twice razed to earth, and twice rebuilt;

Shining in grandeur on the desert plain,

To make more lofty the last monument

Raised for the sons of Peleus. There the bard,

Soothing their restless ghosts with magic song,

A glorious immortality shall give

Those Grecian princes, in all lands renowned

Which ancient ocean wraps in his embrace.

And thou too, Hector! shalt the meed receive

Of pitying tears, where’er the patriot’s blood

Is prized or mourned—so long as yonder sun

Shall roll in heaven, and shine on human woes!”

Abderahman, the first king of Moorish Spain, is said to have been the first who transplanted the palm from the East into Spain. He is represented as frequently addressing it with great feeling, connecting it with recollections of his native land, whence he had been driven by the usurper of his rightful throne.

“They are rightly named Sea Kings,” says the author of the Inglingasaga, “who never seek shelter under a roof, and never drain their drinking horn at a cottage-fire.”

I dreamed of yore, lulled in its foamy shades,

Pressing the turf which once a Horace trod,

In shadowy, old arcades,

Where, ’neath his crumbled temple, sleeps a God!

I saw its waters plunge to yawning caves,

Where danced the floating Iris on their waves,

As with some desert courser’s silvery mane

Wantons the wind, what time he scours the plain;

Then farther off on the green moss divide

In streamlets foaming still, the sheeted tide;

Shrouding the flowery sod with net-work frail,

Spread and contract by turns its waving veil.

And filling all the glade with voice and spray,

Sweep in its tides of quivering light away!

There with fixed gaze upon the waters lone

I watched them, following—losing them anon;

So the mind, wandering from thought to thought,

Loses—then lights upon the trace it sought!

I saw them mount, and roll, and downward glide,

And loved to dream bewildered by their side!

Methought I traced those rays of glorious fame

Wherewith the Eternal City crowned her name,

Back to their source, across an age of night,

Wreathing Tiburnine heights with ancient light.

[Pg 43]

While drank mine ear the deep complaining sound

Of billows warring in their caves profound,

In the waves’ voice, the wailing of the tide,

By thousand rolling echoes multiplied,

I seemed in distance, brought by silence near,

The voice of stirring multitudes to hear,

Which, like these waves, more vanishing than they,

Made vocal once these shores, now mute for aye!

River! to whom the ages brought—I cried,

Empire of old—and swept it from thy side!

Whose name, once sung by poet lips sublime,

Thanks to the bard, defies the lapse of time—

Who the world’s tyrants on thy shores didst see

Wander entranced, and crave their rest from thee;—

Tibullus breathing sighs of soft complaining—

Scipio the vulgar pomp of power disdaining—

In thy deep shades a Julius fled from fame,

Mæcenas claiming from his bards a name—

A Cato pondering virtue—Brutus crime—

What say’st thou, river, with thy ceaseless chime?

Bring’st thou the tones of Horace’ burning lyre?

Or Cæsar’s voice of soothing or of ire?

The forum of a race of heroes brave,

Where striving tribunes lashed the stormy wave

Which, like thy mounting surge in fury hurled,

Too mighty for its bed, o’erswept a world?

Alas! those sounds for ever now are mute,

The battle—the debate—the amorous lute:

’Tis but a stream that weeps upon the shore—

’Tis but thy voice, still murmuring as of yore!

Still? ah! no more on sounding rocks to moan,

From their drained bed thy waters too are gone!

These beetling crags, these caverns void and wide,

These trees that boast no more their dewy pride,

The wandering hind, the bird with wearied wing

That seeks upon the rock its wonted spring,

[Pg 44]

Wait vainly that the vanished wave restore

To the mute vale its voice and life once more;

And seem in desert solitude to say,

“Thus pass terrestrial pride and pomp away!”

Ah! marvel we no more that empires fall,

That man’s frail works speed to destruction all,

Since nature’s fabric, built to outlast the skies,

Sinks by degrees, and like a mortal dies!

Since this proud stream, which centuries have seen

Foaming and rushing, quits its ancient reign.

A river disappears! these thrones of day,

Gigantic hills, shall sink in turn away;

In yonder heaven thick sown with gems so bright,

Extinguished stars shall leave the desert night;

Yea, perish space itself, with all that live,

And of whate’er has been, shall nought survive.

Nought shall survive! But Thou, of worlds the source,

Who light’st heaven’s fires, and giv’st the waves their course,

Who, on the wheel of time bid’st years go round,

Thou shalt be, Lord!—For ever changeless found!

These planets quenched, these river murmurs checked,

These crumbled mountains, worlds in ruin wrecked,

These ages whelmed in Time’s immensity,

Even time and space, annihilate in Thee,

Nature, who mocks at works her hand did raise,

All—all are fleeting tributes to Thy praise;

And each existence here to death betrayed

Thy Being hymns, which knows nor change nor shade.

Oh, Italy! thy hills of beauty weep,

Where the world’s histories, writ in ruins, sleep!

Where empire, passing on from clime to clime,

Hath left impressed so deep his steps sublime!

Where glory, emblemed once in thy fair name,

Hides with a shining veil thy present shame!

[Pg 45]

Lo! the most speaking of the wrecks of years—

Weep! pity’s voice shall answer to thy tears!

By empire, by misfortune sacred made,

Queen, source of nations, mother of the dead!

Not only of those noble sons the pride

Whom thy green age hath nourished at thy side—

By thy foes cherished, envied while betrayed,

The home of greatness is thy mighty shade!

The mind that from antiquity would claim

The vanished forms of liberty and fame—

The spirit meek that greets a purer day,

Scorning the world’s vain gods of vulgar sway,

That seeks an only altar, loftier still,

For one true God, supreme, invisible—

Both, both, with bitter tenderness and trust

Hail thee their mother—worship thee in dust!

The winds that snatch the relics from thy tomb

To jealous eyes profane the holy gloom;

From every turf the peasant’s plough divides,

Some glorious shade the rude invasion chides;

In thy vast temple, where the God of love

Reigns o’er the fallen shrines of pagan Jove,

Each mortal, while he breathes its sacred air,

Feels it belongs to all who worship there!

Each tree that withers on thy mountains stern,

Each mouldered rock, each desecrated urn,

Each floweret bruised on monumental stone,

Each fragment smote from ruins moss-o’ergrown,

Strikes to the nations’ heart a painful sound,

As from the scythe of time a deeper wound!

All that obscures thy sovereign majesty

Degrades our glory in degrading thee!

Thee misery only renders doubly dear;

Each heart bounds at thy name—each eye a tear

Pours for thy fortunes! From a brilliant heaven

Thy sun to thee his glowing light hath given;

[Pg 46]

The very sail that rides thy swelling seas,

When thy far borders greet the welcoming breeze,

Conscious and fluttering at some high command,

Adoring bends to touch thy sacred sand!

Widow of nations! long, ah! long be thine

The homage deep which makes thee thus divine!

The trophies of past grandeur, great though vain,

Which at thy feet in Rome’s proud dust remain!

Be all of thine, even ruin, consecrate!

Nor envy those who boast a brighter fate:

But as imperial Cæsar, sped to death,

In royal mantle wrapt, resigned his breath,

Whate’er a future destiny decree,

Be thy proud robe immortal memory!

What reck’st thou who the laurelled crown may wear?

No future e’er can with thy past compare!

Broken, while mantling yet, my cup of life;

The breath in sighs retained and feeble strife

No grief of mourning friends can now delay;

The hollow bell from yonder giant tower

Tolls out my doom!—Pass we the waning hour

In tears or song away?

In song—my fingers clasp the lyre in death—

My spirit, swanlike, with departing breath

To worlds unseen lifts her melodious cry:—

How should the soul, of music wrought above,

Save in the strains of harmony and love,

Pour forth her farewell sigh?

The lyre in breaking yields its loftiest sound;

The dying lamp, ere quenched in gloom profound,

Shoots forth a beam that shames its vanished rays;

Heavenward the swan’s expiring glance is cast—

While man alone weeps for his pleasures past,

And counts his closing days.

What is the worth of time that we deplore?

A sun—a sun—an hour—and yet an hour—

And each the last resembling in its flight!

One brings the joys another bears away;

[Pg 75]

Labor—grief—rest—a vision! Such the day!

Then comes the unconscious night.

Let him lament, who pressed with eager fears,

Clings like the ivy, to the wreck of years;

Whose hope can hail no future, holier morn:—

I, who have held in earth nor root nor seed,

Pass without effort, like the fragile weed

On evening breezes borne.

Like is the poet to the birds of flight

Which shun the strand that ocean crests with white,

Nor seek mid forest shades their brief repose;

Poised on the wave, they pass the far-off shore

With heedless warblings—and the world no more

Than their wild voices, knows.

No master’s hand along the sounding wires

Guided mine own, nor taught my soul its fires;

No lessons give what heaven alone doth send:

The stream learns not from its deep source to sing—

Eagles—to cleave the skies with soaring wing—

The bee—its sweets to blend.

The bell resounding from its dome on high,

In glad or mournful anthem to the sky

Peals for the rites of marriage or the grave;

My being too, e’en like that fire-wrought bell,

To every passion’s touch, in mighty swell,

A solemn answer gave.

’Tis thus at night the wild harp, far and faint,

Blending with wailing streams its airy plaint,

Pours to the wind spontaneous melodies:

The charmed traveller stays his step to hear,

And thrilled with wonder, marvels whence so near

The sounds celestial rise.

[Pg 76]

Full oft my chords were steeped in tears and rue;

For the soul’s flower are tears the heavenly dew—

It blooms not in the sun’s unclouded ray.

From broken cups the sparkling juice is shed,

And the crushed herb, beneath our reckless tread,

Spreads perfume on our way.

God wrought my spirit of the subtle fire;

All she approached her being did inspire.

Ah, fatal gift! with love o’erfraught, I die.

All I have touched resolves in dust away—

So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray

Sinks, its own ruins nigh.

Time? ’tis no more.—Fame?—What is to the sage

This echo vain from age transferred to age?

This name—the toy of centuries yet to dawn?

Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,

Hear—hear my harp’s last utterings.—’Tis in vain!

With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!

Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet!

Say, shall a sound so perishing and fleet

Waft round a tomb the eternal voice of praise?

Is this renown—a dying mortal’s sigh?

And you who said his glory ne’er could die—

Know you your term of days?

Attest the gods—through life, that mighty name

My lips have uttered but in scorn and shame—

That name—the vaunt of man’s delirious pride:

Proved more—still more its emptiness I find—

And spurn it—like the parched and vapid rind

Of fruits our lips have tried.

In sterile hope of this uncertain fame

Man to the tide commits a cherished name;

[Pg 77]

From day to day wanes its receding light;

With the bright wreck Time’s billow sports—yet on

Year after year it floats—then plunges down,

Whelmed in the abyss of night.

One bark the more I launch upon the deep,

To sink or float, sport of the tempest’s sweep.

Can it avail me, if a name remain?

The swan that sails in yon imperial sky—

Asks he if yet his wings, self-poised on high,

Shadow the subject plain?

Then wherefore sing?—Ask of the minstrel bird

Wherefore all night her plaintive voice is heard

Mingled with streamlets moaning ’neath the shade!

I sang—as man impulsive drinks the air—

As breezes sigh—as rivers murmur—where

They roam the silent glade.

Love, prayer, and song to me existence gave:—

Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,

In this my farewell hour I nought regret;

Nought—save the burning sighs that soar above,

The lyre’s full ecstasy, or wordless love

Of hearts that ne’er forget.

To sweep the lyre at listening beauty’s feet—

To mark from note to note the transport sweet

Thrill her rapt bosom with responsive power;

To draw the tears of rapture from her eyes,

As morning dews are swept by zephyrs’ sighs

From the full, bending flower—

To watch her pensive glances meekly rise

In hallowed transport to the arching skies,

The seraph sounds pursuing in their flight—

Then softly bend to earth, with fondness beaming,

[Pg 78]

While from the downcast lids the soul is gleaming,

Like trembling fires at night—

To mark on her fair brow the shade of thought,

Words failing to the lips with awe o’erfraught—

And mid the silence deep at length to hear

That word which fills the seraph’s holiest strain—

The word—“I love!”—pronounced by gods and men—

This—this is worth a tear!

A tear! a vain regret—an idle breath!

My soul mounts heavenward on the wings of death.

I go—where all our loftiest wishes rise;

I go—where hope hath fixed her burning gaze—

I go—where float my lute’s high notes of praise—

Where tend my latest sighs.

Like birds that see through darkness of the tomb,

The spirit’s eye hath pierced my gathering gloom,

With prophet instinct pointing to the dead;

Toward that vast future where our thoughts aspire,

How oft, upborne to heaven on wings of fire,

My soul hath death outsped!

O’er my last dwelling grave no haughty name,

Nor raise me monuments inscribed to fame.

Are the dead jealous of their lonely dust?

Leave only at my tomb enough of space,

Where some sad wanderer near the sacred place

May kneel in humble trust.

Oft in the hush of secresy and gloom

Hath prayer gone up beside the solemn tomb,

And hope descended to the weary soul!

The foot clings less to mortal weakness there—

Heaven grows more vast—the spirit mounts its sphere

Less bowed to earth’s control.

[Pg 79]

Give to the winds, the flame, the ocean’s roar,

These strings which to my soul respond no more.

The harp of angels soon these hands shall sweep!

Soon, thrilled like them with an immortal fire,

Seraphic hosts, perchance, my ardent lyre

In ecstasy shall steep!

Soon—but the dull cold hand of death along

My chords has struck:—one farewell gush of song

Sad and receding—to the winds is given.

They break—’tis gone!—my friends, be yours the hymn!

My parting soul would rise, while earth grows dim,

In melody to heaven!

“It is hereby enacted, that if any Patrician be seen to hold intercourse in secret with the ambassadors of France or Spain, or pass their thresholds after sunset, he shall be held guilty of treason and shall suffer its penalty.”

Teresa’s chamber. Teresa, in bridal robes, sitting at a table, with writing materials.

(Exit Vincentio. Foscarini paces the scene a few moments in silence—then suddenly stops.)

(Foscarini enters, masked, and remains at the back of the scene, watching Teresa.)

A Garden, near the palace of Contarini. On one side the palace of the Spanish ambassador.

(Re-enter Steno and servants, dragging in Foscarini, who is wounded. The curtain falls.)

(Contarini makes signs apart to Pascali, who goes out hastily.) Enter Memmo.

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The Sepulchres,	PAGE 13
Lake Ontario,	22
The Prince and the Palm Tree,	24
Hacon,	26
The Forest Temple,	29
Oh! her glance is the brightest that ever has shone,	31
To a Waterfall,	32
The Sea Kings,	34
The waves that on the sparkling sand,	36
Is this a Day of Death?	37
Paraphrase of the one hundred and thirty-seventh Psalm,	38
The cloud where sunbeams soft repose,	40
Like southern birds,	41
The Loss of the Anio,	42
The Guardian Genius,	47
Stanzas,	49
Song—the closing year,	51
Scene from Alfieri’s Tragedy of Saul,	53
The Vanity of the Vulgar Great,	59
Sonnet—Rome in ruins,	61
Fables,	62
[Pg x] O’er the far mountain peak on high,	65
Incantation of Hervor,	66
Death,	69
Enthusiasm,	71
The Dying Poet,	74
I would I were the light winged bird,	80
Midnight Thoughts,	82
Song of the Jewish Exiles,	84
The Druids’ Hymn,	86
The Blind Harper,	88
The Mermaid’s Song,	90
Susquehanna,	91
Romance,	94
The Death of St. Louis,	96
Complaint of Harald,	100
Echo,	102
Epigram,	ib.
The Pictured Rocks,	103
Sunset,	107
To the Lance-fly,	108
The Division of the Earth,	109
In yonder lake of silver sheen,	111
The Swallows,	112
Nature,	114
Lines,	116
Fragment from “Ildegonda,”	117
A Life spent in Pursuit of Glory,	119
The Wish,	120
The Northern Hunter’s Song,	121
From Ippolito Pindemonte—The Poet’s Last Dwelling,	123
From mountains at the dawn of day,	125
[Pg xi] The Witches’ Revel,	126
Song,	128
Sodus Bay,	130
Notes,	133
Teresa Contarini—a tragedy,	137

Doge of Venice.
Foscarini.
Contarini.	Inquisitors of State.
Loredano.
Badoero.
Veniero.
Vincentio.
Leonardo.
Steno.	Officers of the Inquisition.
Pascali.
Beltramo, the Jailer.
Memmo, Captain of the Guard.
Marco.
Stefano.
Teresa.
Fiorilla.
Matilda.
First Attendant.
Senators—Guards—Attendants, &c.

POEMS.

PREFACE.

INDEX.

THE SEPULCHRES.[1]

LAKE ONTARIO.

THE PRINCE AND THE PALM TREE.

HACON.

THE FOREST TEMPLE.

OH! HER GLANCE IS THE BRIGHTEST THAT EVER HAS SHONE.

TO A WATERFALL.[11]

THE SEA KINGS.

THE WAVES THAT ON THE SPARKLING SAND.

IS THIS A DAY OF DEATH?

PARAPHRASE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SEVENTH PSALM.

THE CLOUD WHERE SUNBEAMS SOFT REPOSE.

LIKE SOUTHERN BIRDS.

THE LOSS OF THE ANIO.

THE GUARDIAN GENIUS.[12]

STANZAS,

SONG—THE CLOSING YEAR.

SCENE FROM ALFIERI’S TRAGEDY OF SAUL.

THE VANITY OF THE VULGAR GREAT.

SONNET—ROME IN RUINS.

FABLES.

O’ER THE FAR MOUNTAIN PEAK ON HIGH.

INCANTATION OF HERVOR.[13]

DEATH.

ENTHUSIASM.

THE DYING POET.

I WOULD I WERE THE LIGHT-WINGED BIRD.

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

SONG OF THE JEWISH EXILES.

THE DRUIDS’ HYMN.

THE BLIND HARPER.

THE MERMAID’S SONG.

SUSQUEHANNA.

ROMANCE.

THE DEATH OF ST. LOUIS.

COMPLAINT OF HARALD.

ECHO.

EPIGRAM.

THE PICTURED ROCKS.[14]

SUNSET.

TO THE LANCE-FLY.

THE DIVISION OF THE EARTH.

IN YONDER LAKE OF SILVER SHEEN.

THE SWALLOWS.

NATURE.

LINES.

FRAGMENT FROM “ILDEGONDA.”

A LIFE SPENT IN PURSUIT OF GLORY.

THE WISH.

THE NORTHERN HUNTER’S SONG.

FROM IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE.

FROM MOUNTAINS AT THE DAWN OF DAY.

THE WITCHES’ REVEL.

SONG.

SODUS BAY.

NOTES.

TERESA CONTARINI: A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

TERESA CONTARINI.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT V.

TERESA CONTARINI:
A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.