Puslapio vaizdai
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Mectly refined, and tempered, to receive
The impression of a love which never dies.

How art thou changed! All tenderness you seemed,
Gentle and social as a playful child;
But now, in lofty meditation wrapped,
As on an icy mountain-top thou sit'st
Lonely and unapproachable, or tossest
Upon the surge of passion, like the wreck
Of some proud Tyrian in the stormy sea.

ઃઃ

Extract from " The Airs of Palestine."-Pierpont.

ON Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows,
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws,
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone, at night,-the Italian boatman sails.
High o'er Mont Alto walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen:-he sees her image, on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest
Around his brow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering, dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed

Of waveless water, rests her radiant head.
How mild the empire of that virgin queen!

How dark the mountain's shade! How still the scene?
Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,

Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.

Hark! 'tis a convent's bell:-its midnight chime :
For music measures even the march of time:-
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore,
Gray turrets rise :-the eye can catch no more.
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell,
Suspends his oar;-a low and solemn swell,
From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white,

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