III.

Now fair thou art,

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,

I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought,

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone; a heart, whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections that o'erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below,
to be my star, a voice to bring

An

eye

Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring,

These are denied me-dreamt of still in vain,—

Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,

Rising triumphantly, to die ere long

In dirge-like echoes.

IV.

Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work, in thee,

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter,-give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine,

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love's kind words to woman!

Worthless fame!

That in his bosom wins not for my name

Th' abiding place it asked! Yet how my heart,

In its own fairy world of

song and art,

Once beat for praise !-Are those high longings o'er?

That which I have been can I be no more?—

Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky

Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!

And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams
Unchang'd on forms instinct with poet-dreams;

Never, oh! never more!

Where'er I move,

The shadow of this broken-hearted love

Is on me and around! Too well they know,
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled;-but I go

Under the silent wings of Peace to dwell; From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain, The inward burning of those words—“ in vain,”

Sear'd on the heart-I go. 'Twill soon be past. Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,

And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth,-who know'st not what was given In that devotedness,-the sad, and deep, And unrepaid—farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness, and unto me Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be So richly blest! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;

With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,

To listen silently ;-with thee to gaze

On forms, the deified of olden days,—

This had been joy enough;—and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame

A glory for thy brow!-Dreams, dreams!-the fire Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name— As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre When its full chords are hush'd-awhile to live, And one day haply in thy heart revive Sad thoughts of me :-I leave it, with a sound,

A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound,

I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,

Say proudly yet-"'Twas hers who lov'd me well!"

GERTRUDE,

OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled "Gertrude Von Der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death."