to me Vent fearless to the convent, and would toil | He rushed beside her: Towards him gloomily or the pale monks and till their rocky soil, She looked, and then he gasped-"We-list And gain their bounty, (garments coarse and Which he would carry to his cavern rude, And feed the dove that lay within his nest, nd hush her every evening to her rest. food) We-we must part-must part, is it not so?" 66 That it must be so-nay, Colonna-nay, At last she learned the tale-Orsini-Away to death. Alas! and must we part, How! iven up and banished from his grave, Orsini, dark Orsini!-On her soul stream n rivers down his cheeks when he did dream: Sometimes in bitter spleen his tongue would chide And then, in anguish that he could not hide, lone man, in his madness,—in despair. And will she leave me then who loved her so, Yet wherefore should I stay her, if her love His mind must sink and lose itself in night. No music in the winds nor in the sound The wild birds uttered from the forests round; From pain at length, from pain, (for could he bear The sorrow burning wild without a tear?) We who have loved long and so truly ?-yes; Oh! Marcian, Marcian, I must go: my road Keeping a horrid silence there he sate, He clenched his hands and rushed away, And looked and laughed upon the opening day, And mocked the morn with shouts, and wandered wild For hours as by some meteor-thing beguiled. His heart all fiery and his senses gone; strange, And frenzy suffered then a silent change, He gained he gained (why droops my story?) then An opiate deadly from the convent-men, And bore it to his cave: she drank that draught Of death, and he looked on in scorn, and With an exulting terrible joy, when she -She had no after-sleep; but ere she slept Strong spasins and pains throughout her body crept, And round her brain and tow'rds her heart, Away he wandered for some lengthened hour | And thou, the lost Colonna,—thou, wha When the black poison shewed its fiercest power, And when he sought the cavern, there she lay, But patience in her smile still faintly shone, sate Beside her like an image. Death and Fate sun rail brain Was fever-struck with love and jealous p died. He passed away and never came again He left his home, his friends, his titles Rose upon him : on him?—his task was done. To stand, or live, or perish in their pr The murderer and the murdered--one as pale | And secking out some unknown countryAs marble shining white beneath the moon, The other dark as storms, when the winds He died, and left no vain memorial Of him or of his deeds, for scorn or pra At the chafed sea,— but not to calm so soon-Nor record for the proud Colonna-race No bitterness, nor hate, nor dread was there; To blot or blazon, cherish or compare, But love still clinging round a wild despair, His fate is lost: his name (like others)-* A wintry aspect and a troubled eye, Mourning o'er youth and beauty born to die. Dead was she, and her mouth had fallen low, But still he watched her with a stedfast brow: Unaltered as a rock he sate, while she Lay changed to clay, and perish'd. Drearily Came all the hues of death across her face: That look, so lovely once, had lost its grace, The eye its light, the cheek its colour, now. -Oh! human beauty, what a dream art thou, That we should cast our life and hopes away, On thee-and dost thou like a leaf decay, In Spring-tide as in Autumn?-Fair and frail, In bud or blossom if a blight prevail, How ready art thou from the world to fly; And we who love thee so are left-to die. Fairest of all the world, thy tale is told: My tale hath reached its end; yet A superstition in those piny dells, gone. A SICILIAN STOR Y. THERE is a spirit within us, which arrays Into some great forest's heart, A story (still believed through Sicily) Is told of one young girl who chose to die For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe, If that ye can believe so strange a story, That woman ever could so deeply grieve, Save she who from Leucadia's promontory Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy; Ungrateful he to work her such annoy!) But time hath, as in sad requital, given A branch of laurel to her, and some bard Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven: | And as in female trust seemed there to grow, The human heart from its recess, were seen: there came sky, Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd Sick at the soul with sorrow; her quick eye Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy, The dark-eyed Guido whom she lov'd so well; (O how he loved Sicilian Isabel!) That wear a beauty like the imperial star choir Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful That morn they sat upon the sea sight green; Drew her white hand to see his raven hair | For in that land the sward springs fred. Come down in masses like the starless night, free And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while To catch his sweet inimitable smile, yore Stole from Alcmena's son) but one and then The mistress of the feast, while all passed by She sate and shrank from his enquiring eye, And now to tell of him whose tongue had gained The heart of Isabel. "Twas said, he came (And he was of a line of fame) From Milan where his father perished. He was the last of all his race, and fled To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reigned: Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps, faint Shew them such forms as maids may love. He stood Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven-descended, Hermes or young Apollo, òr whom she Kissed with the kiss of immortality. can tell. And she-but what of her, his chosen bride, His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride, And loved almost too much for happiness? Enough to say that she was born to bless; She was surpassing fair: her gentle voice Came like the fabled music that beguiles The sailor on the waters, and her smiles Shone like the light of heaven, and said: Rejoice! Close to the ocean, and no tides are se To break the glassy quiet of the sea And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabe Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut h Which in her white and heaving boss Like things enamour'd, and then with jea air Bade the soft amorous winds not wa there; And then his dark eyes sparkled, az wound The fillets like a coronet around Her brow, and bade her rise,and rise a And oh! 'twas sweet to see her delicate! Pressed 'gainst his parted lips,as the te In mimic anger all those whispers blas He knew so well to use, and on his me Her round arm hung, while half as in comm And half entreaty did her swimming (f Speak of forbearance, 'till from her po lip He snatched the honey-dews that lovers And then, in crimsoning beauty, play She frowned, and wore that self-betrayi Which women, loved and flattered, lev wear. Oft would he, as on that same spot they Beneath the last light of a summer's Tell (and would watch the while her ste eye) How on the lone Pacific he had bers When the Sea-Lion on his watery wa Went rolling thro' the billows green. And shook that ocean's dead tranqu And he would tell her of past tim where He rambled in his boyhood far away, Breathes her dim oracles on the soul efs Her sleep that night was fearful,--() night! If it indeed was sleep: for in her sig1 form (a dim and waving shadow) stood, | The Winter-trumpet, 'till its failing breath Ind pointed far up the great Etna's side, Went moaning into silence, every green here, from a black ravine, a dreary wood | And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell eeps out and frowns upon the storms below, Some trembling story of that mountain-dell. and bounds and braves the wilderness of snow. gazed awhile upon the lonely bride ith melancholy air and glassy eye, nd spoke: "Awake, and search yon dell, for I, ho' risen above my old mortality, pave left my mangled and unburied limbs prey for wolves hard by the waters there, nd one lock of my black and curled hair, hat one I vowed to thee my beauty, swims ike a mere weed upon the mountain-river; nd those dark eyes you used to love so well They loved you dearly, my own Isabel!) re shut, and now have lost their light for ever. o then unto yon far ravine, and save our husband's heart for some more quiet grave han what the stream and withering winds may lend, nd 'neath the basil-tree we planted, give he fond heart burial, so that tree shall live nd shed a solace on thy after-days; nd thou-but oh! I ask thee not to tend he plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze. or with a spirit's power I see thy heart." e said no more, but with the dawning day hrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart efore the conquering sun-beams, silently. hen sprung she from the pillow where she lay, o the wild sense of doubtful misery: nd when she 'woke she did obey the dream, nd journey'd onwards to the mountainstream, ow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she drew he thorns aside which there luxuriant grew, d with a beating heart descended, where Fie waters washed, it said, its floating hair. was a spot like those romancers paint, painted when of dusky knights they told andering about in forests old, hen the last purple colour was waxing faint d day was dying in the west:-the trees ark pine and chesnut, and the dwarfed oak d cedar) shook their branches 'till the shade ok'd like a living spirit, and as it played em'd holding dim communion with the breeze. low, a tumbling river rolled along That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken; The valleys where the avalanches roll. Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought, And how she from each glance a courage caught; For light and life had scattered half her fright, And she could almost smile on the past night; So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear Lest she might scorn Heav'n's missioned minister, She took her weary way and searched the dell, And there she saw him-dead. Poor desolate child Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild No pity on the boy you loved so well! There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, His pale face upwards to the careless day, That smiled as it was wont; and he was found s course by lava-rocks and branches broke) | His young limbs mangled on the rocky ging for aye its fierce and noisy song; ground, there on shattered trunks the lichens And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows |