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His sketch, the while, was in my hand,

And, for the lines I look'd to trace

A torrent by a palace spann'd, Half-classic and half fairy-landI only found-my sister's face!

III.

Another love

Our life was changed.

In its lone woof began to twine;
But ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!

She who had liv'd for me before

She who had smiled for me aloneWould live and smile for me no more! The echo to my heart was gone!

It seemed to me the very skies

Had shone through those averted eyes;

The air had breath'd of balm-the flower

Of radiant beauty seemed to be

But as she lov'd them, hour by hour,

And murmur'd of that love to me!

Oh, though it be so heavenly high

The selfishness of earth above,

That, of the watchers in the sky,

He sleeps who guards a brother's loveThough to a sister's present weal

The deep devotion far transcends

The utmost that the soul can feel

For even its own higher ends—

Though next to God, and more than heaven For his own sake, he loves her, even

Tis difficult to see another,

A passing stranger of a day

Who never hath been friend or brother, Pluck with a look her heart away

To see the fair, unsullied brow, Ne'er kiss'd before without a prayer, Upon a stranger's bosom now,

Who for the boon took little care

Who is enrich'd, he knows not whyWho suddenly hath found a treasure Golconda were too poor to buy,

And he, perhaps, too cold to measure-

(Albeit, in her forgetful dream,

Th' unconscious idol happier seem,)

'Tis difficult at once to crush

The rebel mourner in the breast,

To press the heart to earth and hush

Its bitter jealousy to rest—

And difficult-the eye gets dim,

The lip wants power-to smile on him!

I thank sweet Mary Mother now,

Who gave me strength those pangs to hide, And touch'd mine eyes and lit my brow With sunshine that my heart belied.

I never spoke of wealth or race

To one who ask'd so much from me

I looked but in my sister's face,

And mus'd if she would happier be;
And hour by hour, and day by day,

I lov'd the gentle painter more,
And in the same soft measure wore

My selfish jealousy away;

And I began to watch his mood,

And feel with her love's trembling care,

And bade God bless him as he woo'd That loving girl so fond and fair,

And on my mind would sometimes press

A fear that she might love him less.

But Melanie-I little dream'd

What spells the stirring heart may movePygmalion's statue never seem'd

More changed with life, than she with love.

The pearl tint of the early dawn

Flush'd into day-spring's rosy hue

The meek, moss-folded bud of morn

Flung open to the light and dew—

The first and half-seen star of even

Wax'd clear amid the deepening heaven

Similitudes perchance may be,

But these are changes oftener seen,

And do not image half to me

My sister's change of face and mien.

"Twas written in her very air

That Love had passed and enter'd there.

IV

A calm and lovely paradise

Is Italy, for minds at ease.

The sadness of its sunny skies

Weighs not upon the lives of these. The ruin'd aisle, the crumbling fane, The broken column, vast and prone,

It may be joy-it may be pain

Amid such wrecks to walk alone!

The saddest man will sadder be,

The gentlest lover gentler there,

As if, whate'er the spirit's key,

It strengthened in that solemn air.

The heart soon grows to mournful things,

And Italy has not a breeze

But comes on melancholy wings;

And even her majestic trees

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