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tuon the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes

down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the

breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope

of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene ; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish thougu

they be, do milst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me

March, IRA

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The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's “Antiquities of the House of Brunswick.” I am aware, that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following extract will explain the facon on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.

“ Under the reign of Nicholas III., Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful ana vayant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a parent."-Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. ii. p. 470.

• The facts on which the procent poem was grounded are to be found 'Frizzi's "History of Ferrara."


It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale's high note is heard ;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ;
And gentle winds, and waters ncar,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wot,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner huo,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the declino of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

II, But it is not to list to the waterfall That Parisina leaves her hall, And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light, That the lady walks in the shadow of night; And if she sits in Este's bower, "Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flowerShe listens--but not for the nightingale Though her ear expects as soft a tale. Thero glides a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows palo—and her heart beats quicles There whispers a voice through the rustling leavaa, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : A moment more and they shall meet"Tis past her lover 's at her feet.

And what unto them is the world besido,
With all its change of time and tide ?
Its living things its earth and sky-
Are nothing to their mind and eye.
And hoodless as the dead are they

Of aught around, above, beneath.
As if all else had pass'd away,

They only for each other breathe :

Their very sighs are full of joy

So deep, that did it not decay,
That happy madness would destroy

The hearts which feel its fiery sway:
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem
In that tumultuous tender dream?
Who that have felt that passion's power,
Or paused, or fear'd, in such an hour ?
Or thought how brief such moments last !
But yet—they are already past.
Alas! we must awake before
We know such vision comes no more.

With many a lingering look they leavo

The spot of guilty gladness past;
And though they hope, and vow, they grig?r:

As if that parting were the last.
The frequent sigh-the long embrace-

The lip that there would cling for ever,
While gleams on Parisina's face

The Heaver she fears will not forgive bor,
As if each calmly conscious star
Beheld her frailty from afar-
The frequent sigh, the long embrace,
Yet binds them to their trysting-placo.
But it must come, and they must part
In fearful heaviness of heart,
With all the deep and shuddering chill
Which follows fast the deeds of ill.

And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed,

To covet there another's bride ;
But she must lay her conscious head

A husband's trusting heart beside.
But fever'd in her sleep she seems,
And red her cheek with troubled dreare

And mutters she in her unrest
A name she dare not breathe by day,

And clasps her lord unto the breast
Which pants for one away:
And he to that embrace awakes,
And, happy in the thought, mistakes
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress,
For such as he was wont to bless;
And could in very fondness weep
O'er her who loves him even in sleep.

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart,

And listen'd to each broken word :
He hears—Why doth Prince Azo start,

As if the Archangel's voice he heard 3
And well he may-a deeper doom
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb,

When he sball wake to sleep no more,
And stand the eternal throne beforo.
And well he may-his earthly peace
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease.
That sleeping whisper of a name
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame.
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow,
Which rolls the plank upon the shore,

And dashes on the pointed rock
The wretch who sinks to rise no more,

So came upon his soul the shock.
And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's-his-
In sooth he had not deem'd of this !-
'Tis Hugo's—he, the child of one
He loved-his own all-evil son-
The offspring of his wayward youth,
When he betray'd Bianca's truth,
The maid whose folly could confide
In him who made her not his bride.

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath,

But sheath'd it ere the point was baru...
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fair-
At least, not smiling-sleeping-there-
Nay more :-he did not wake her then,

But gazed upon her with a glance,

Which, had she roused her from her trance,
Had frozen her sense to sleep again-
And o'er his brow the burning lamp
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp.
She spake no more—but still she slumber'd-
While, in his thought, her days are number'ds

And with the morn he sought, and found,

many a tale from those around,
The proof of all he fear'd to know,-
Their present guilt, his future woe;
The long-conniving damsels seek

To save themselves, and would transfer

The guilt-the shametho doom--to 2:47 ?
Concealment is no more-they speak
All circumstance which may compel
Full credence to the tale they tell :
And Azo's tortured heart and ear
Have nothing more to feel or fear.

He was not one who brook'd delay :

Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Este's ancient sway

Upon his throne of judgment sats

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