PAULINE. To die for what we love!-Oh! there is power Così trapassa al trapassar d'un Giorno Della vita mortal il fiore e'l verde. 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 splendour flung : But loveliest far amidst the revel's pride Pauline, the meekly bright!—tho' now no more There in soft rest lay beautiful to see; A charm with graver, tenderer, sweetness fraughtThe blending of deep love and matron thought. Thro' the gay throng she moved, serenely fair, As her young daughter in the dance went by, Smiles and kind voices in this world alone. Lurk'd there no secret boding in her breast? Such oft awake when most the heart seems blest Whence come those tones !-Alas! enough we know, Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying 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 cry Fire! thro' 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 Have swept her onward, as a stormy blast Might sweep some faint o'erwearied bird along— Till now the threshold of that death is past, And free she stands beneath the starry skies, Calling her child-but no sweet voice replies. «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! But oh! thy strength, deep love!-there is no power And forth, like banners, from each lattice wave. Back, back she rushes thro' a host combined Mighty is anguish, with affection twined! And what bold step may follow, midst the roar |