Stand ghost-like in the Cæsar's home, And drew their sap all kingly yet! Is broken from some mighty thought, And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought, And sunder'd arch, and plunder'd tomb Still thunder back the echo, "Rome!" Yet gaily o'er Egeria's fount The ivy flings its emerald veil, And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount, And light-sprung arches span the dale, And soft, from Caracalla's Baths, The herdsman's song comes down the breeze, While climb his goats the giddy paths To grass-grown architrave and frieze; And gracefully Albano's hill Curves into the horizon's line, And sweetly sings that classic rill, And fairly stands that nameless shrine, And here, oh, many a sultry noon And starry eve, that happy June, Came Angelo and Melanie, And earth for us was all in tune For while Love talk'd with them, Hope walked apart with me! V. I shrink from the embittered close Of my own melancholy tale. 'Tis long since I have waked my woes- The throb beats faster at my brow, My brain feels warm with starting tears, "Twill soothe awhile the ache of years. The painter was a child of shame! It stirr'd my pride to know it first, For I had question'd but his name, And thought, alas! I knew the worst, Believing him unknown and poor. His blood, indeed, was not obscure ; The Roman hid his daughter's shame Within St. Mona's convent wall, And gave the boy a painter's name— And little else to live withal! And, with a noble's high desires For ever mounting in his heart, The boy consum'd with hidden fires, But wrought in silence at his art; And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine, Worn thin with penance harsh and long, He saw his mother's form divine, And lov'd her for their mutual wrong. I said my pride was stirr'd-but no! Was touch'd so mournfully with wo, He loos'd the hand of Melanie, The demon in my bosom died! VI. St. Mona's morning mass was done. The shrine-lamps struggled with the day; And rising slowly, one by one, Stole the last worshippers away. The organist played out the hymn, Or to the pillars thinly clung; And boyish chorister replaced The missal that was read no more, And clos'd, with half irreverent haste, And as, through aisle and oriel pane, The sun wore round his slanting beam, The dying martyr stirr'd again, And warriors battled in its gleam; And costly tomb and sculptur'd knight Show'd warm and wondrous in the light. I have not said that Melanie Was radiantly fair This earth again may never see A loveliness so rare! She glided up St. Mona's aisle That morning as a bride, And, full as was my heart the while, The fountain may not fail the less Whose sands are golden ore, |