372

MELANIE.

J.

I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,*
And marvell'd at the Sybil's fane,
When I was not what I am now.

My life was then untouch'd of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,
My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between
I was a boy of seventeen.

Yon wondrous temple crests the rock,
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air, as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;

But though mine eye will kindle still In looking on the shapes of art,

The link is lost that sent the thrill,
Like lightning, instant to my heart.
And thus may break, before we dic,
The electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
Ten years-like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers-
Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown,

And still I loved the rosy hours; breast And if there lurk'd within my

Some nerve that had been overstrung And quiver'd in my hours of rest,

Like bells by their own echo rung,

I was with Hope a masker yet,

And well could hide the look of sadness,
And, if my heart would not forget,

I knew, at least, the trick of gladness,
And when another sang the strain.
I mingled in the old refrain.

"T were idle to remember now,

Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.

I bear beneath this alter'd brow

The ashes of a thousand dreams:
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some colour'd of Love's pencil well,
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,

Whose wells I had not tasted deep;
And from my lips the thirst had pass'd

For every fount save one-the sweetest-and the last.

The last-the last! My friends were dead,
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honour'd head

The sea had lock'd its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp,
And Love had perish'd in my clasp;

II.

We came to Italy. I felt

A yearning for its sunny sky
My very spirit seem'd to melt

As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and check a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd:
Gon's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me

To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice, in its golden sea,

To Pæstum, in its purple light,
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills,
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom,
Mid Terni's vale of singing rills,

By deathless lairs in solemn Rome,
In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell,"
At Arethusa's hidden well,

We loiter'd like the impassion'd sun,
That slept so lovingly on all,

And made a home of every one-
Ruin, and fane, and waterfall-

And crown'd the dying day with glory,
If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of

story.

We came, with spring, to Tivoli.

My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key;

And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play,

And, like a child that longs for home, When weary of its holiday,

I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps the fancy haunts me still"Twas but a boding sense of ill.

It was a morn, of such a day

As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May.

Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst.

And, on the burden of the air,

The breath of buds came faint and rare;
And, far in the transparent sky,
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen,
Soaring deliriously high;

And through the clefts of newer green

Yon waters dash'd their living pearls; And, with a gayer smile and bow,

Troop'd on the merry village-girls;
And, from the Contadina's brow,

The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown,
With air that scarcely seem'd his own;
And MELANIE, with lips apart,

And clasped hands upon my arm,
Flung open her impassion'd heart,

And bless'd life's mere and breathing charm,
And sang old songs, and gather'd flowers,
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling
hours.

In happiness and idleness

We wander'd down yon sunny vale,—
O, mocking eyes! a golden tress

Floats back upon this summer gale!
A foot is tripping on the grass!

A laugh rings merry in mine ear!
I see a bounding shadow pass!-

O, Gon! my sister once was here!
Come with me, friend;-we rested yon;
There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore;
She sat upon this mossy stone!

That broken fountain, running o'er
With the same ring, like silver bells;
She listen'd to its babbling flow,
And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells

Some fountain nymph's love-story now!"
And, as her laugh rang clear and wild,
A youth-a painter-pass'd and smiled.

He gave the greeting of the morn

With voice that linger'd in mine ear.
I knew him sad and gentle born

By those two words, so calm and clear.
His frame was slight, his forehead high,

And swept by threads of raven hair;
The fire of thought was in his eye,

And he was pale and marble fair;
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watch'd his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,

And loved him e'er the echo died:
And so, alas! did MELANIE!

We sat and watch'd the fount a while
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile

Of sympathy, we saunter'd on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away;

And, in this changefulness of mood,
Forgotten now those May-day spells,

We turn'd where VARRO's villa stood,
And, gazing on the Cascatelles,

(Whose hurrying waters, wild and white,
Seem'd madden'd as they burst to light,)

III.

Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine;
But, ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before-

She who had smiled for me alone-
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!

It seem'd to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;

The air had breathed of balm-the flower

Of radiant beauty seem'd to be

But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmur'd of that love to me!
O, though it be so heavenly high

The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,

He sleeps who guards a brother's loveThough to a sister's present weal

The deep devotion far transcends
The utmost that the soul can feel
For even its own higher ends—
Though next to Gon, and more than heaven
For his own sake, he loves her, even-
"Tis difficult to see another,

A passing stranger of a day,

Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away,

To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, Upon a stranger's bosom now, Who for the boon took little care,

Who is enrich'd, he knows not why; Who suddenly hath found a treasure

Golconda were too poor to buy; And he, perhaps, too cold to measure, (Albeit, in her forgetful dream, The unconscious idol happier seem,) "T is difficult at once to crush The rebel mourner in the breast,

To press the heart to earth, and hush
Its bitter jealousy to rest,-

And difficult-the eye gets dim—
The lip wants power to smile on him!

I thank sweet MARY Mother now,

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide,

And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race,

To one who ask'd so much of me,--
I look'd but in my sister's face,

And mused if she would happier be; And, hour by hour, and day by day,

I loved the gentle painter more,

And in the same soft measure wore
My selfish jealousy away;

And I began to watch his mood,
And feel, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he woo'd
That loving girl, so fond and fair,

And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
But MELANIE--I little dream'd

What spells the stirring heart may move-PYGMALION'S statue never seem'd More changed with life, than she with love. The pearl-tint of the early dawn

Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue;
The meek, moss-folded bud of morn
Flung open to the light and dew;
The first and half-seen star of even
Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven-
Similitudes perchance may be;
But these are changes oftener seen,

And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mien.
"T was written in her very air,
That love had pass'd and enter'd there.

IV.

A calm and lovely paradise

Is Italy, for minds at ease. The sadness of its sunny skies

Weighs not upon the lives of these. The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, The broken column, vast and proneIt may be joy, it may be pain,

Amid such wrecks to walk alone; The saddest man will sadder be,

The gentlest lover gentler there,

As if, whate'er the spirit's key,

It strengthen'd in that solemn air.

The heart soon grows to mournful things;
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;

And even her majestic trees
Stand ghost-like in the CESAR's home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,

And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath

Is broken from some mighty thought, And sculptures in the dust still breathe

The fire with which their lines were wrought, And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!"

Vet gayly o'er Egeria's fount

The ivy flings its emerald veil.
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale,

And soft, from Caracalla's Baths,

The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill

Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill,

And fairly stands that nameless shrine; And here, O, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came ANGELO and MELANIE, And earth for us was all in tuneFor while Love talk'd with them, Hope walk d apart with me!

V.

I shrink from the embitter'd close
Of my own melancholy tale.

"Tis long since I have waked my woes-
And nerve and voice together fail!
The throb beats faster at my brow,

My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep-but heed not thou!

"T will soothe a while the ache on years. The heart transfix'd-worn out with griefWill turn the arrow for relief.

The painter was a child of shame!

It stirr'd my pride to know it first,
For I had question'd but his name,

And thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;

A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.

The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name-
And little else to live withal!

And, with a noble's high desires
Forever mounting in his heart,

The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;

And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long,
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirr'd-but no!

The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touch'd so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of MELANIE,
And gazed so gaspingly on me—

The demon in my bosom died!
"Not thine," I said, "another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!"

VI.

St. Mona's morning mass was done;

The shrine-lamps struggled with the day; And, rising slowly, one by one,

Stole the last worshippers away.

The organist play'd out the hymn,

The incense, to St. MARY swung,