And there the Alhambra still recalls Allah il Allah! through its halls Ah yes, the hills are white with snow, But in the happy vale below The orange and pomegranate grow, And wafts of air toss to and fro The blossoming almond-trees. The Vega cleft by the Xenil, Of the sweet landscape chains the will; His parted lips are breathing still How like a ruin overgrown With flowers that hide the rents of time, Stands now the Past that I have known, Castles in Spain, not built of stone, But of white summer clouds, and blown Into this little mist of rhyme! VITTORIA COLONNA. Vittoria Colonna, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. NCE more, once more, Inarimé, I see thy purple hills !—once more High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Upon its terrace-walk I see A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna,—it is she Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death, that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand And closer locked and barred her breast. She knew the life-long martyrdom, The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The song of birds, and, more than these, The respiration of the sea, The soft caresses of the air, All things in nature seemed to be But ministers of her despair; Till the o'erburdened heart, so long Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist. Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love. THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE. I N that desolate land and lone, Where the Big Horn and Yellowstone By their fires the Sioux Chiefs And the menace of their wrath. "Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face, Of the White Chief with yellow hair! " From their crags re-echoed the cry In the meadow, spreading wide All was silent as a dream, And the blue-jay in the wood. |