Sing to him, say to him, here at his | That many another hath done the same, Though not by a sound was the silence broken; The surest pledge of a deathless name Is the silent homage of thoughts unspoken. VITTORIA COLONNA. VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. ONCE more, once more, Inarimé, I see thy purple hills !-once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A phantom gliding to and fro; Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding ring upon her hand, And closer locked and barred her She knew the life-long martyrdom, Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The odour of the orange blooms, The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms; The soft caresses of the air, Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist. Inarimé! Inarimé! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love. SONG. STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Are full of trouble and full of care; | Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are battled and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best. Then stay at home, my heart, and | O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; rest; The bird is safest in its nest; To stay at home is best. IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN. HERE lies the gentle humourist, who died In the bright Indian summer of his fame! A simple stone, with but a date and name, Marks his secluded resting-place beside The river that he loved and glorified. Here in the autumn of his days he came, But the dry leaves of life were all aflame With tints that brightened and were multiplied. How sweet a life was his; how sweet a death! Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer; Dying, to leave a memory like the breath Of summers full of sunshine and of showers, A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. ELIOT'S OAK. THOU ancient oak! whose myriad | With some mysterious gift of tongues leaves are loud With sounds of unintelligible speech, beach, [crowd; Or multitudinous murmurs of a endowed, SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock | Sails, but seems motionless, as if moves round; So slowly that no human eye hath power To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower The painted ship above it, homeward bound, aground; Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower The slumbrous watchman wakes and strikes the hour, A mellow, measured, melancholy sound. Yesterday and To-morrow take One to the land of promise and of One to the land of darkness and of Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! I follow, follow, where thy waters run Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, III. Between thy narrow adamantine walls, But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, Fragrant with flowers and musical Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, yields Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, Regrets and recollections of things past, With hints and prophecies of things to be, And inspirations, which, could they be things, IV. And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, Were our good angels,-these I owe to thee. And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! It is the mystery of the unknown That fascinates us; we are children still, Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. PP THE ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, And to the fireside gleams, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. I fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, I see the convent's gleaming wall And towers of old cathedrals tall, I journey on by park and spire, And toil through various climes, |
