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There stands a lonely dwelling, by the wave
Of the blue deep which bathes Italia's shore,
Far from all sounds, but rippling seas that lave
Grey rocks with foliage richly shadow'd o'er,
And sighing winds, that murmur through the wood,
Fringing the beach of that Hesperian flood.

Fair is that house of solitude-and fair
The green Maremma, far around it spread,
A sun-bright waste of beauty-yet an air
Of brooding sadness o'er the scene is shed,
No human footstep tracks the lone domain,
The desert of luxuriance glows in vain.

And silent are the marble halls that rise
'Mid founts, and cypress walks, and olive groves:
All sleeps in sunshine, 'neath cerulean skies,
And still around the sea-breeze lightly roves;
Yet every trace of man reveals alone,

That there life once hath flourished-and is gone.

There, till around them slowly, softly stealing,
The summer air, deceit in every sigh,

Came fraught with death, its power no sign revealing,
Thy sires, Pietra, dwelt, in days gone by;

And strains of mirth and melody have flow'd
Where stands, all voiceless now, the still abode.

And thither doth her Lord, remorseless, bear
Bianca with her child-his alter'd eye
And brow a stern and fearful calmness wear,
While his dark spirit seals their doom—to die;
And the deep bodings of his victim's heart,
Tell her, from fruitless hope at once to part.

It is the summer's glorious prime-and blending
Its blue transparence with the skies, the deep,
Each tint of Heaven upon its breast descending,
Scarce murmurs as it heaves, in glassy sleep,
And on its wave reflects, more softly bright,
That lovely shore of solitude and light.

Fragrance in each warm southern gale is breathing,
Deck'd with young flowers the rich Maremma glows,
Neglected vines the trees are wildly wreathing,
And the fresh myrtle in exuberance blows,
And far around, a deep and sunny bloom
Mantles the scene, as garlands robe the tomb.
Yes! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale,
Which o'er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale,
And fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.

But sink not yet; for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading,
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot:
'Tis agony-but soon to be forgot!

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it to the last!

Such pangs were thine,

bend

young mother!-Thou didst

O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head;
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend,
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye,

Fix'd upon thee-on thee!—who could'st no aid supply!
There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hours-to thee the wind's low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow,
Came like some spirit whispering-" He must die!"
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast
His young and sunny smile so oft with hope had blest.

'Tis past-that fearful trial-he is gone;
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep;
The hour of nature's charter'd peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet-and death shall be
As a bright messenger from heaven to thee.

But ask not-hope not-one relenting thought
From him who doom'd thee thus to waste away,
Whose heart, with sullen, speechless vengeance
fraught,

Broods in dark triumph o'er thy slow decay;
And coldly, sternly, silently can trace

The gradual withering of each youthful grace.

And yet the day of vain remorse shall come,
When thou, bright victim! on his dreams shalt rise
As an accusing angel-and thy tomb,

A martyr's shrine, be hallow'd in his eyes!

Then shall thine innocence his bosom wring, More than thy fancied guilt with jealous pangs could sting.

Lift thy meek eyes to heaven-for all on earth,
Young sufferer! fades before thee-Thou art lone-
Hope, Fortune, Love, smiled brightly on thy birth,
Thine hour of death is all Affliction's own!
It is our task to suffer-and our fate
To learn that mighty lesson, soon or late.

The season's glory fades-the vintage-lay
Through joyous Italy resounds no more;
But mortal loveliness hath pass'd away,
Fairer than aught in summer's glowing store.
Beauty and youth are gone-behold them such
As Death hath made them with his blighting touch!

The summer's breath came o'er them-and they died!
Softly it came to give luxuriance birth,

Call'd forth young nature in her festal pride,
But bore to them their summons from the earth!
Again shall blow that mild, delicious breeze,
And wake to life and light all flowers-but these.

No sculptured urn, nor verse thy virtues telling,
O lost and loveliest one! adorns thy grave;
But o'er that humble cypress-shaded dwelling
The dew-drops glisten, and the wild-flowers wave-
Emblems more meet, in transient light and bloom,
For thee, who thus didst pass in brightness to the tomb!

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF GEORGE THE THIRD.

"Among many nations were there no King like him." NEHEMIAH.

.

"Know ye not that there is a prince and a great man fallen this day in Israel !" SAMUEL.

ANOTHER warning sound! the funeral bell,
Startling the cities of the isle once more
With measured tones of melancholy swell,

Strikes on th' awaken'd heart from shore to shore.
He, at whose coming monarchs sink to dust,
The chambers of our palaces hath trod,
And the long-suffering spirit of the just,

Pure from its ruins, hath return'd to God! Yet may not England o'er her Father weep; Thoughts to her bosom crowd, too many, and too deep.

Vain voice of Reason, hush!-they yet must flow, The unrestrain'd, involuntary tears;

A thousand feelings sanctify the woe,

Roused by the glorious shades of vanish'd years. Tell us no more 'tis not the time for grief, Now that the exile of the soul is past, And Death, blest messenger of Heaven's relief, Hath borne the wanderer to his rest at last;

For him, eternity hath tenfold day,

We feel, we know, 't is thus-yet nature will have way.

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