MELANIE. I. I STOOD on yonder rocky brow,* My life was then untouch'd of pain; And all things that were true and fair Yon wondrous temple crests the rock- As pure in its proportion'd grace, 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, Ten years-like yon bright valley, sown And still I loved the rosy Hours; 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- But none of which a shadow lingers, 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, Above my 'father's honor'd head The sea had lock'd its hiding wave; When plague and ruin bid him flee, The last of the De Brevern race, My sister claim'd no kinsman's care; 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; As swept its first warm breezes by. It was an endless joy to me To see my sister's new delight; To Paestum in its purple light- By deathless lairs in solemn Rome- We loiter'd like th' impassion'd sun That slept so lovingly on all, And made a home of every one— 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 ; The small, earth-keeping birds were seen 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, And Melanie, with lips apart, And clasped hands upon my arm, |