MISCELLANEOUS PO E M S. ROSALIE. 'Tis a wild tale-and sad, too, as the sigh That young lips breathe when Love's first dreamings fly; When blights and cankerworms, and chilling showers, Come withering o'er the warm heart's passion-flowers. Then they were silent :—words are little aid To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!— Music swept past:-it was a simple tone; But it has wakened heartfelt sympathies;It has brought into life things past and gone; Has wakened all those secret memories, That may be smothered, but that still will be Present within thy soul, young ROSALIE! The notes had roused an answering chord within: Love! gentlest spirit! I do tell of thee, It is a night of summer,-and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone, Like beauty's changeful smile, when that it seeks Some face it loves, yet fears to dwell upon. The waves are motionless, save where the oar, Light as Love's anger, and as quickly gone, Has broken in upon their azure sleep. Odours are on the air:-the gale has been Wandering in groves where the rich roses had been. Her altered look is pale: that dewy eye Almost belies the smile her rich lips wear;That smile is mocked by a scarce-breathing sigh, Which tells of silent and suppressed careTells that the life is withering with despair, More irksome from its unsunned silentness— A festering wound the spirit pines to bear; A galling chain, whose pressure will intrude, Fettering Mirth's step, and Pleasure's lightest mood. Where are her thoughts thus wandering? -A spot, Now distant far, is pictured on her mind.A chesnut shadowing a low white cot, Where orange, citron, and the soft lime-With rose and jasmine round the casement weep, twined, Mixed with the myrtle-tree's luxuriant blind. Alone, (oh! should such solitude be here?) An aged form beneath the shade reclined, Whose eye glanced round the scene;—and then a tear Told that she missed one in her heart. enshrined. She started up in agony:-her eye Met MANFREDI's. Softly he spoke, and smiled; Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie Lost in one dream-all thrown on one wild die. They floated o'er the waters, till the moon Look'd from the blue sky in her zenith noon, Till each glad bark at length had sought the shore, And the waves echoed to the lute no more;Then sought their gay palazzo, where the ray Of lamps shed light only less bright than day; And there they feasted till the morn did fling Her blushes o'er their mirth and revelling. And life was as a tale of faerie,— As when some Eastern genie rears bright bowers, And spreads the green turf and the coloured flowers; And calls upon the earth, the sea, the sky, To yield their treasures for some gentle queen, Whose reign is over the enchanted scene. And worn by grief, though grief might The seal that beauty set in happier years; Past this life's joys and sorrows, hopes and fears The worldly dreams o'er which the many brood; The heart-beat hushed in mild and chastened It was the image of the maid who wept One knelt before the shrine, with check as As was the cold white marble. Can this be Oh, Love thy essence is thy purity! Breathe one unhallowed breath upon thy flame, And it is gone for ever,-and but leaves And ROSALIE was loved,—not with that pure And holy passion which can age endure; But loved with wild and self-consuming fires, A torch which glares-and scorches-and expires. A little while her dream of bliss remained,— A little while Love's wings were left unchained. But change came o'er the trusted MANFREDI : How very desolate that breast must be, Whose only joyance is in memory! And what must woman suffer, thus betrayed!Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made But things wherewith to wound: that heartso weak, So soft-laid open to the vulture's beak! Its sweet revealings given up to scorn It burns to bear, and yet that must be borne ! And, sorer still, that bitterer emotion, To know the shrine which had our soul's devotion Is that of a false deity!-to look thrall! She thought upon her love; and there was | Worth restlessness,oppression,goading fears, And long-deferred hopes of many years.— not In passion's record one green sunny spot-To reach again that little quiet spot, To her lone mother. How her bosom burned The wounded dove will flee into her nest- The cold world scorn, the cruel smite in vain, Her faults and find forgiveness. Had not she There was a smile which gave hope energy. The home she hoped; -- A flush of beauty is upon the skyEve's last warm blushes-like the crimson dye The maiden wears, when first her dark eyes meet The graceful lover's, sighing at her feet. And peasants dancing gaily in the shade There is a pilgrim by that old gray tree, With head upon her hand bent mournfully; And looking round upon each lovely thing, And breathing the sweet air, as they could bring So well loved once, and never quite forgot ; – To look delighted, welcome none was there! She heard some voices' sweet familiar sound. There were girls, whom she left in their first Now blushed into full beauty; there was one And it had twined its small hands in the hair dove To one who clasped it with a father's love; Through a small grove of cypresses, whose Hung o'er a burying-ground, where the low stone And the gray cross recorded those now gone! To pay the tribute of one long-last tear! Then ROSALIE thought on her mother's age, Just such her end would be with her away To her no beauty and no solacing. 'Tis ROSALIE! Her prayer was not in vain. The truant-child has sought her home again! | She asked-and like a hope from Heaven it It must be worth a life of toil and care,Worth those dark chains the wearied one must bear Who toils up fortune's steep,-all that can wring The worn-out bosom with lone suffering, came! To hear them answer with a stranger's name. She reached her mother's cottage; by that gate She thought how her once lover wont to wait thought On all the utter ruin he had wrought! To tell her honied tales; and then she | A thousand deep-blue violets have grown But it shone o'er the desolate! The flowers Almost as if in mockery, had brought But the rich breathing of their leaves is Like woman, they have lost their loveliest On the shore opposite a tower stands In ruins, with a mourning-robe of moss | Hung on the gray and shattered walls, which fling A shadow on the waters; it comes o'er The waves, all bright with sunshine, like the gloom the heart's young gladness. Adversity throws on I saw the river on a summer-eve: The sun was setting over fields of corn,'Twas like a golden sea ;—and on the left Were vineyards, whence the grapes shone forth like gems, Rubies, and lighted amber; and thence spread So bright,are like the pleasures of this world, Around them ever. Wilder and more steep rose Was there in all its luxury of bloom, sun: And on the steeps were crosses gray and old, firs; And on the heights, which mastered all the Were castles, tenanted now by the owl, Or sunny curl were banners of the battle.— Lord HERBERT sat him in his hall: the hearth Was blazing as it mocked the storm without With its red cheerfulness: the dark hounds | Its very loveliest, when the fresh air lay Around the fire; and the old knight had doffed His bunting-cloak, and listened to the lute And song of the fair girl who at his knee Was seated. In the April-hour of life, When showers are led by rainbows, and the heart Is all bloom and green leaves, was ISABELLE: A band of pearls, white like the brow o'er which They past, kept the bright curls from off the forehead; thence They wandered to her feet—a golden shower. She had that changing colour on the cheek Which speaks the heart so well; those deepblue eyes, Like summer's darkest sky, but not so glad They were too passionate for happiness. Light was within her eyes, bloom on her cheek, Her song had raised the spirit of her race Upon her eloquent brow. She had just told Of the young ROLAND's deeds,-how he had stood Against a host and conquered; when there came A pilgrim to the hall-and never yet Again they gathered round the hearth, again The maiden raised her song; and at its close, "I would give worlds," she said, "to see this chief, Has tinged the cheek we love with its glad red; And the hot noon flits by most rapidly, And gallant is the bearing of his ranks. This gallant ROLAND! I could deem him all Knelt before ISABELLE! knight ISABELLE has watched Day after day, night after night, in vain, They loved; they were beloved. Oh, Upon old histories, and said with them, happiness! I have said all that can be said of bliss, has Such store of wealth in its own fresh wild pulse; And it is love that works the mind, and brings Its treasure to the light. I did love onceLoved as youth-woman-genius loves; though now My heart is chilled and sear, and taught to wear That falsest of false things-a mask of smiles; That throws its own rich colour over all, “There is no hope in man's fidelity!” ISABELLE stood upon her lonely tower; | And, as the evening-star rose up, she saw An armed train bearing her father's banner In triumph to the castle. Down she flew To greet the victors :-they had reached the hall Before herself. What saw the maiden there? i |