MELANIE.

I.

I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,*
And marvell'd at the Sibyl's fane,
When I was not what I am now.

My life was then untouch'd of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirr'd my hair,
My spirit freshen'd in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between-
I was a boy of seventeen.

Yon wondrous temple crests the rock-
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,

As pure in its proportion'd grace,
And seems a thing of air-as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;

But though mine eye will kindle still

In looking on the shapes of art,

The link is lost that sent the thrill,

Like lightning instant to my heart.

The story is told during a walk around the Cascatelles of Tivoli.

And thus may break, before we die,
Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!

Ten years-like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers-
Had swiftly, if not gaily, flown,

;

And still I loved the
rosy Hours
And if there lurk'd within my breast
Some nerve that had been overstrung
And quiver'd in my hours of rest,

Like bells by their own echo rung,

I was with Hope a masquer yet,

And well could hide the look of sadness; And, if my heart would not forget,

I knew, at least, the trick of gladness; And when another sang the strain, I mingled in the old refrain.

'Twere idle to remember now,

Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.

I bear beneath this alter'd brow

The ashes of a thousand dreams

Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some color'd of Love's pencil well-
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climb'd again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,

Whose wells I had not tasted deep;

And from my lips the thirst had pass'd For every fount save one-the sweetest-and the last.

The last the last! My friends were dead,
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honor'd head

The sea had lock'd its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foil'd my grasp,
And love had perish'd in my clasp;
And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gather'd my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure

When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine-my loved, lost Melanie!

The last of the De Brevern race,

My sister claim'd no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,
The eye stole upward unaware-
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between-

Yet that was world enough for me;
And, for a brief but blessed while,
There seem'd no care for Melanie
If she could see her brother smile!
But life with her was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
From the same shore of vain desire;

And knew I, with prophetic heart,

That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart.

II.

We came to Italy. I felt

A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seem'd to melt

As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime,
By every breath seem'd softly kiss'd-
God's blessing on its radiant clime!

It was an endless joy to me

To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice in its golden sea

To Postum in its purple light-
By sweet Val d'Arno's tinted hills-

In Vallombrosa's convent gloom—
'Mid Terni's vale of singing rills-

By deathless lairs in solemn Rome-
In gay Palermo's "Golden Shell"—
At Arethusa's hidden well-

We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun

That slept so lovingly on all,

And made a home of every one

Ruin, and fane, and waterfall

And crown'd the dying day with glory

If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story.

We came with Spring to Tivoli.

My sister loved its laughing air And merry waters, though, for me, My heart was in another key;

And sometimes I could scarcely bear The mirth of their eternal play,

And, like a child that longs for home When weary of its holiday,

I sigh'd for melancholy Rome. Perhaps the fancy haunts me still'Twas but a boding sense of ill.

It was a morn, of such a day

As might have dawn'd on Eden first, Early in the Italian May.

Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst,

And on the burthen of the air

The breath of buds came faint and rare ;
And far in the transparent sky

The small, earth-keeping birds were seen.
Soaring deliriously high;

And through the clefts of newer green

Yon waters dash'd their living pearls;

And with a gayer smile and bow

Troop'd on the merry village-girls;

And from the Contadino's brow

The low-slouch'd hat was backward thrown,
With air that scarcely seem'd his own;

And Melanie, with lips apart,

And clasped hands upon my arm,