And to her hamlet's chapel, where it rose The helm of many battles from her head, And with her bright locks bow'd to sweep the ground, Let me return!" Oh! never did thine eye Through the green haunts of happy infancy PAULINE. To die for what we love!-Oh! there is power In the true heart, and pride, and joy, for this; It is to live without the vanish'd light That strength is needed. Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un giorno TASSO. ALONG the star-lit Seine went music swelling, Till the air thrill'd with its exulting mirth; Proudly it floated, even as if no dwelling For cares or stricken hearts were found on earth; And a glad sound the measure lightly beat, A happy chime of many dancing feet. For in a palace of the land that night, Lamps, and fresh roses, and green leaves were hung, And from the painted walls a stream of light On flying forms beneath soft splendor flung: But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride Pauline, the meekly bright !-though now no more Her clear eye flash'd with youth's all tameless glee, Yet something holier than its dayspring wore, There in soft rest lay beautiful to see; A charm with graver, tenderer sweetness fraught- Through the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, As her young daughter in the dance went by, Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast? Whence come those tones?-Alas! enough we know, Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying Silence !—the minstrels pause-and hark! a sound, And lo! a light upon the dancers breaking— Not such their clear and silvery lamps had shed! From the gay dream of revelry awaking, One moment holds them still in breathless dread : The wild, fierce lustre grows-then bursts a cryFire! through the hall and round it gathering-fly! And forth they rush-as chased by sword and spear To the green coverts of the garden-bowers; A gorgeous masque of pageantry and fear, Startling the birds and trampling down the flowers: While from the dome behind, red sparkles driven Pierce the dark stillness of the midnight heaven. And where is she, Pauline ?-the hurrying throng "Bertha! where art thou?-Speak, oh! speak, my own!" Alas! unconscious of her pangs the while, The gentle girl, in fear's cold grasp alone, Powerless hath sunk within the blazing pile; A young bright form, deck'd gloriously for death, With flowers all shrinking from the flame's fierce breath! |