THE BASIL TREE OF SALERNUM.

FROM BOCCACIO.

BY SIR BROOKE BOOTHBY, BART.

WHERE Messina's proud battlements glitter in air,
On Sicily's beautiful coast,

Young Lizabette dwelt; a maiden more fair,
More modest, no city could boast.

As the rose-blossom, fresh with the dews of the night,
So pure and so lovely she seem'd;

Her

eyes with mild lustre enchanted the sight Where soft sensibility beam'd.

In the care of three brothers this damsel was left; They were merchants, right wealthy and proud; Of a parent's affections in childhood bereft,

To their will with submission she bow'd.

Their commerce to aid, they a youth entertain'd,
From Pisa, Lorenzo his name;

The good will of all his docility gain'd,
Well-learn'd and of excellent fame.

With all that youth, beauty, and health can impart, The stripling was fair to behold;

The glance of his eye spoke the warmth of his heart, And his curls shone like ringlets of gold.

In Lizabette's breast Love soon lighted a flame,
That death could extinguish alone;

Before she suspected, thro' all her fine frame,
The subtile infection had gone.

The flush of her cheek, her love-languishing eye,
Her sadness, Lorenzo away,

The quick starting tear, and the half-smother'd sigh,
Her passion too plainly betray.

Lorenzo's soft bosom return'd the bright flame;
O'er his ardent, affectionate soul,

Their ages, their beauties, their feelings the same,
The passion insensibly stole.

Does Love know degrees? or of fortune take heed?
Oh no, little cares he for these,

Nor riches nor rank do his votaries need,
All they ask is the blessing to please.

Their innocent loves they agree to conceal,
For the pride of the brothers they knew;
To witness their vows, to the Virgin appeal,
And swear on the cross to be true.

Oft in secret they met in a neighbouring bower,
With all the devotion of love.

By one of the brothers, in ill-fated hour,
They together were seen in the grove.

Full of rage and disdain, to the others he hies,
The pride-wounding tale to impart.
"Lizabetta disgraces our honour," he cries,
"Seduc'd by Lorenzo's base art."

A speedy revenge they agree shall be ta'en,
That Lorenzo must fall they decide.

Blood, by treachery shed, to wash off honour's stain!
O detestable madness of pride!

To effect their dread purpose, a voyage they pretend,
To Palermo, on business of weight;

The faithful Lorenzo engage as their friend,
And hide in caresses their hate.

The youth, like an innocent victim, they lead;
Unarm'd, unsuspecting, he goes.
'Arriv'd in a solitude meet for the deed,
He is slain by his merciless foes.

The murder to hide the assassins make haste;
His corse, without sepulture due,

They inter on the shore, and, the sand-hills replac'd,
Their way to Palermo pursue.

Nine watchful long days, nine disconsolate nights,
Lizabetta their absence had mourn'd.

O heavens! what transport her bosom delights
When she hears they are safely return'd!

She flies like an arrow to welcome them home

"Dear brothers you have staid very long;"

No Lorenzo she saw-no Lorenzo was there-
The welcome expir'd on her tongue.

Then, trembling, at last, she adventured to say, "And where is Lorenzo, your friend?

"Have you left him behind? on some business to stay?— "Your steps he is wont to attend!"

With voice sharp and angry, they frowning reply'd, “And what is Lorenzo to you?

"Modest maids, to their sampler and prayer book, "apply'd,

"With young strangers have nothing to do."

Forc'd her sighs to suppress, her breast inwardly bled,
Deny'd in the day-time to weep,

All night bitter tears o'er her pillow were shed,
Never more to know peaceable sleep.

Return, O return, my Lorenzo so dear, "Return to this bosom again!

"Lorenzo! Lorenzo! thy Lizabette hear,
"Ah! let her not call thee in vain !"

Torn, wounded, disfigur'd, all ghastly and wan,
On a sudden before her he stood.

How sad was his visage! how faded and gone!
And his bright hair was dabbl'd in blood*.

"And could'st thou," he cried, "ever doubt of my love?
"Or believe that from thee I could stray?
"Death only a passion like ours can divide,
"Death only could keep me away.

By thy barbarous brothers thy lover lies slain; "Henceforward our union is o'er.

"Oh call not on me! Alas, 'tis in vain! "Adieu-thou wilt see me no more.

* Shakspeare.

"On the shore, in the sand-hills, my body is laid; "Near the pine-trees that wave on the right

"Of Saint Magdalen's chapel."-When this he had said,

He vanish'd at once from her sight.

Ere the break of the dawn, she awaken'd her maid,
Her secrets and sorrows who shar'd.

Told her all that the horrible vision had said,
And to visit the place they prepar❜d.

Thro' the city they pass'd, sunk in silent repose,
Pain and sorrow alone were awake;

By the gate where the cause-way due westerly goes,
The road to the sand-hills they take.

And soon was Saint Magdalen's chapel in view,
And the pine-trees that waved on the right;
The place as describ'd by the spectre she knew,
And was ready to die at the sight.

The leaves, on the earth that were recently shed,
They remove with their trembling hands;
And there, where it lay in its dark, narrow bed,
The body they find in the sands.

Grim, ghastly, disfigur'd he lies on the ground,
A model of beauty before,

Rent with many a hideous and merciless wound,

And his ringlets all clotted with gore.

Round the dead mangled carcass her white arms she

threw,

And press'd his cold hand to her heart—

"And is it for this we have sworn to be true?

"Is it thus we meet never to part?”