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?"

"O lady, dear lady," Bianca then cries,

"This place is unfitted for you;

""Tis already full day, I entreat you to rise,

"And depart from this horrible view."

To the church-yard the body they try to convey,
And place it in consecrate ground,

But to bear it along in vain they essay,

Their efforts too feeble were found.

The head from the trunk they then sever'd, and plac'd In a scarf, where the eye might discern

Sweet emblems of love, which her needle had trac'd
As a gift for her lover's return.

They buried the corps as before in the sands,
And branches and leaves o'er it laid.

On their knees to Saint Magdalen lifted their hands,
For his soul while they fervently pray'd.

Thro' bye ways and streets unfrequented, the head,
Unseen, to her chamber they bore.

The scarf on the carpet pale Lizabette spread,
And by it lay down on the floor.

His poor livid lips she a thousand times kiss'd,
As cold as the monument stone:

And the heart of a tyger alone would resist
To join in her pitiful moan.

To wash the dark stains that disfigur'd his face,
No water was wanting I ween;

The fountain of tears that descended apace
All the blood was sufficient to clean.

In her bed-chamber, facing the sun's early rays,
Stood a vase in the window's recess,

Which 'twas Lizabette's pleasure in happier days,
With the sweets of each season to dress.

Devoutly the head she depos'd in its round,
And the love-broider'd scarf laid upon,

Then cover'd it deep with fresh soil from the ground,
And a basil-tree planted thereon.

With her flowing tears water'd and fan'd with her sighs,
The basil-tree flourishing grows;

And morning and night a sweet odour supplies,
That like incense to Lizabette rose.

Her brothers observe her decline day by day,
As a fall'n flower wither and fade;
"Your beautiful sister her life weeps away,
"She is heart-struck," the neighbourhood said.

"We see her all day bending over a vase,
"In the opposite window that stands,
"In action as one at an altar that prays,

"And round it she wreaths her pale hands."

When this they had heard, they by stealth in the night
From her chamber the flower-pot bore:

O God, how she griev'd at return of the light,
The shrine of her saint there no more!

"Restore me the vase! bring the basil-tree back!"
Was still her disconsolate cry.

So sorely she griev'd, and no succour would take,
That they judg'd her in danger to die.

Alarm'd and much wondering what it should be,
They examin'd the vase, where they found
The remains of a head, all horrid to see,
With a scarf for a winding-sheet bound.

They knew it again by its ringlets of gold;
And seiz'd with a sudden dismay,

Their conscious affright to each other they told,
And fled from Messina away.

On her bed lay poor Lizabette, no more to rise,
Bianca sat weeping beside;

Still demanding the vase, the tears stream'd from her

eyes,

Till she sunk on her pillow and died.

CANZONET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE HON. W. Spencer.

SWEET flower! I place thee on the tomb

Of her my soul lov'd best;

But changeful here will be thy bloom,
As on her beauteous breast.
For there, affection's ardent glow
Thy vivid tints made fly;
And, ah! on this dear dust I know
That, chill'd, thou soon must die.

༔།

R. A. D.

ST