"O lady, dear lady," Bianca then cries, To the church-yard the body they try to convey, Their efforts too feeble were found. The head from the trunk they then sever'd, and plac'd In a scarf, where the eye might discern Sweet emblems of love, which her needle had trac'd As a gift for her lover's return. They buried the corps as before in the sands, On their knees to Saint Magdalen lifted their hands, Thro' bye ways and streets unfrequented, the head, The scarf on the carpet pale Lizabette spread, His poor livid lips she a thousand times kiss'd, And the heart of a tyger alone would resist To wash the dark stains that disfigur'd his face, The fountain of tears that descended apace In her bed-chamber, facing the sun's early rays, Which 'twas Lizabette's pleasure in happier days, Devoutly the head she depos'd in its round, Then cover'd it deep with fresh soil from the ground, With her flowing tears water'd and fan'd with her sighs, And morning and night a sweet odour supplies, Her brothers observe her decline day by day, "We see her all day bending over a vase, "And round it she wreaths her pale hands." When this they had heard, they by stealth in the night O God, how she griev'd at return of the light, "Restore me the vase! bring the basil-tree back!" Was still her disconsolate cry. So sorely she griev'd, and no succour would take, Alarm'd and much wondering what it should be, They knew it again by its ringlets of gold; Their conscious affright to each other they told, On her bed lay poor Lizabette, no more to rise, Still demanding the vase, the tears stream'd from her eyes, Till she sunk on her pillow and died. CANZONET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE HON. W. Spencer. SWEET flower! I place thee on the tomb Of her my soul lov'd best; But changeful here will be thy bloom, R. A. D. ODE. WHERE shall I meet a friend? I pine alone, Alike in all, in years, pursuits and heart; Shut up in friendships, well tried, firm and fond, Should reach your valley, my belov'd to be, When breathes my pipe, o'er glooming's quiet plain, In trembling tones of sorrow,-know that he, Who sings so tender on a distant lea, Is thine. Arise, in search of his retreat, M. N. SONG. HAVE LAVE you not seen the rippling stream Along the moss-clad margin gleam?Have you not seen the driving snow O'er yon cold heathy mountain blow ?As pure, but not so cold, the love, That my poor throbbing heart doth move. Have you not seen the bashful rose As half unwilling to unveil Its beauties to the ruder gale?— As pure, as modest is the love, That my poor, throbbing heart doth move. Have you not seen with amorous coo That my poor throbbing heart doth move. |