And the pure glittering snow-realm, yet more high, That seems a part of heaven's eternity.

There is no track of man where Hamet stands, Pathless the scene as Lybia's desert sands; Yet on the calm still air a sound is heard Of distant voices, and the gathering-word Of Islam's tribes, now faint and fainter grown, Now but the lingering echo of a tone.

ear,

That sound, whose cadence dies upon his He follows, reckless if his bands are near. On by the rushing stream his way he bends, And through the mountain's forest zone ascends; Piercing the still and solitary shades Of ancient pine, and dark luxuriant glades, Eternal twilight's reign :-those mazes past, The glowing sunbeams meet his eyes at last, And the lone wanderer now hath reach'd the source Whence the wave gushes, foaming on its course. But there he pauses-for the lonely scene Towers in such dread magnificence of mien, And, mingled oft with some wild eagle's cry, From rock-built eyrie rushing to the sky, So deep the solemn and majestic sound Of forests, and of waters murmuring roundThat, rapt in wondering awe, his heart forgets Its fleeting struggles and its vain regrets. -What earthly feeling unabash'd can dwell In nature's mighty presence?-midst the swell Of everlasting hills, the roar of floods,

And frown of rocks, and pomp of waving woods? These their own grandeur on the soul impress, And bid each passion feel its nothingness.

Midst the vast marble cliffs, a lofty cave Rears its broad arch beside the rushing wave; Shadow'd by giant oaks, and rude and lone, It seems the temple of some power unknown, Where earthly being may not dare intrude To pierce the secrets of the solitude. Yet thence at intervals a voice of wail Is rising, wild and solemn, on the gale. Did thy heart thrill, O Hamet! at the tone? Came it not o'er thee as a spirit's moan? Assome loved sound that long from carth had fled, The unforgotten accents of the dead!

various tints of their granites. Sometimes the precipices were of a faint pink, then of a deep red, a dull purple, or a blush approaching to lilac; and sometimes gleams of a pale yellow mingled with the low shrubs that grew upon their sides. The day was cloudless and bright, and we were too near these heights to be deceived by the illusions of aerial colouring; the real hues of their features were as beautiful as their magnitude was sublime."

E'en thus it rose-and springing from his trance
His eager footsteps to the sound advance.
He mounts the cliffs, he gains the cavern floor;
Its dark green moss with blood is sprinkled o'er
He rushes on-and lo! where Zayda rends
Her locks, as o'er her slaughter'd sire she bends,
Lost in despair;-yet, as a step draws nigh,
Disturbing sorrow's lonely sanctity,

She lifts her head, and, all-subdued by grief,
Views with a wild sad smile the once-loved chief;
While rove her thoughts, unconscious of the past,
And every woe forgetting-but the last.

"Com'st thou to weep with me?-for I am left Alone on earth, of every tie bereft. Low lies the warrior on his blood-stain'd bier; His child may call, but he no more shall hear. He sleeps-but never shall those eyes unclose; "Twas not my voice that lull'd him to repose; Nor can it break his slumbers.-Dost thou mourn? And is thy heart, like mine, with anguish torn? Weep, and my soul a joy in grief shall know, That o'er his grave my tears with Hamet's flow?"

But scarce her voice had breathed that well

known name,

When, swiftly rushing o'er her spirit, came
Each dark remembrance-by affliction's power
Awhile effaced in that o'erwhelming hour,
To wake with tenfold strength: 'twas then her eye
Resumed its light, her mien its majesty,
And o'er her wasted cheek a burning glow
Spreads, while her lips' indignant accents flow.

"Away! I dream! Oh, how hath sorrow's might Bow'd down my soul, and quench'd its native lightThat I should thus forget! and bid thy tear With mine be mingled o'er a father's bier! Did he not perish, haply by thy hand,

In the last combat with thy ruthless band?
The morn beheld that conflict of despair :-
"Twas then he fell he fell!-and thou wert
there!

Thou! who thy country's children hast pursued
To their last refuge midst these mountains rude.
Was it for this I loved thee?-Thou hast taught
My soul all grief, all bitterness of thought!
'Twill soon be past-I bow to heaven's decree,
Which bade each pang be minister'd by thee."

"I had not deem'd that aught remain'd below For me to prove of yet untasted woe; But thus to meet thee, Zayda! can impart One more, one keener agony of heart.

Oh, hear me yet!-I would have died to save
My foe, but still thy father, from the grave;
But in the fierce confusion of the strife,

In my own stern despair and scorn of life,
Borne wildly on, I saw not, knew not aught,
Save that to perish there in vain I sought.
And let me share thy sorrows!-hadst thou known
All I have felt in silence and alone,

E'en thou mightst then relent, and deem, at last,
A grief like mine might expiate all the past.

"But oh! for thee, the loved and precious flower, So fondly rear'd in luxury's guarded bower, From every danger, every storm secured, How hast thou suffer'd! what hast thou endured! Daughter of palaces! and can it be

That this bleak desert is a home for thee!
These rocks thy dwelling! thou, who shouldst
have known

Of life the sunbeam and the smile alone!
Oh, yet forgive!-be all my guilt forgot,
Nor bid me leave thee to so rude a lot!"

"That lot is fix'd-'twere fruitless to repine: Still must a gulf divide my fate from thine. I may forgive-but not at will the heart Can bid its dark remembrances depart. No, Hamet! no!-too deeply are these traced; Yet the hour comes when all shall be effaced! Not long on earth, not long, shall Zayda keep Her lonely vigils o'er the grave to weep. E'en now, prophetic of my early doom, Speaks to my soul a presage of the tomb; And ne'er in vain did hopeless mourner feel That deep foreboding o'er the bosom steal! Soon shall I slumber calmly by the side

Of him for whom I lived, and would have died; Till then, one thought shall soothe my orphan lot, In pain and peril-I forsook him not.

"And now, farewell!-behold the summer-day
Is passing, like the dreams of life, away.
Soon will the tribe of him who sleeps draw nigh,
With the last rites his bier to sanctify.

Oh, yet in time, away!-'twere not my prayer
Could move their hearts a foe like thee to spare!
This hour they come-and dost thou scorn to fly?
Save me that one last pang-to see thee die!"
E'en while she speaks is heard their echoing tread;
Onward they move, the kindred of the dead.
They reach the cave- they enter-slow their pace,
And calm deep sadness marks each mourner's face;
And all is hush'd, till he who seems to wait
In silent stern devotedness his fate,

Hath met their glance-then grief to fury turns;
Each mien is changed, each eye indignant burns,
And voices rise, and swords have left their sheath
Blood must atone for blood, and death for death!
They close around him: lofty still his mien,
His cheek unalter'd, and his brow serene.
Unheard, or heard in vain, is Zayda's cry;
Fruitless her prayer, unmark'd her agony.
But as his foremost foes their weapons bend
Against the life he seeks not to defend,
Wildly she darts between-each feeling past,
Save strong affection, which prevails at last.
Oh, not in vain its daring!-for the blow
Aim'd at his heart hath bade her life-blood flow;
And she hath sunk a martyr on the breast
Where in that hour her head may calmly rest,
For he is saved! Behold the Zegri band,
Pale with dismay and grief, around her stand:
While, every thought of hate and vengeance o'er,
They weep for her who soon shall weep no more.
She, she alone is calm :-a fading smile,
Like sunset, passes o'er her cheek the while;
And in her eye, ere yet it closes, dwell
Those last faint rays, the parting soul's farewell.

"Now is the conflict past, and I have proved How well, how deeply thou hast been beloved! Yes! in an hour like this 'twere vain to hide The heart so long and so severely tried: Still to thy name that heart hath fondly thrill'd, But sterner duties call'd-and were fulfill'd. And I am blest !-To every holier tie My life was faithful,-and for thee I die! Nor shall the love so purified be vain; Sever'd on earth, we yet shall meet again. Farewell!-And ye, at Zayda's dying prayer, Spare him, my kindred tribe! forgive and spare! Oh! be his guilt forgotten in his woes, While I, beside my sire, in peace repose."

Now fades her check, her voice hath sunk, and death

Sits in her eye, and struggles in her breath.
One pang-'tis past-her task on earth is done,
And the pure spirit to its rest hath flown.
But he for whom she died-oh! who may paint
The grief to which all other woes were faint?
There is no power in language to impart
The deeper pangs, the ordeals of the heart,
By the dread Searcher of the soul survey'd:
These have no words-nor are by words portray'd

A dirge is rising on the mountain-air, Whose fitful swells its plaintive murmurs bear

Far o'er the Alpuxarras;-wild its tone,
And rocks and caverns echo, "Thou art gone !"

Daughter of heroes! thou art gone

To share his tomb who gave thee birth: Peace to the lovely spirit flown!

It was not form'd for earth.
Thou wert a sunbeam in thy race,
Which brightly pass'd and left no trace.

"But calmly sleep!-for thou art free,

And hands unchain'd thy tomb shall raise. Sleep! they are closed at length for thee,

Life's few and evil days!

Nor shalt thou watch, with tearful eye,
The lingering death of liberty.

"Flower of the desert! thou thy bloom
Didst early to the storm resign:
We bear it still-and dark their doom
Who cannot weep for thine!
For us, whose every hope is filed,
The time is past to mourn the dead.

"The days have been, when o'er thy bier Far other strains than these had flow'd; Now, as a home from grief and fear,

We hail thy dark abode!

We, who but linger to bequeath

Our sons the choice of chains or death.

"Thou art with those, the free, the brave,
The mighty of departed years;
And for the slumberers of the grave
Our fate hath left no tears.
Though loved and lost, to weep were vain
For thee, who ne'er shalt weep again.

"Have we not seen despoil'd by foes The land our fathers won of yore?

And is there yet a pang for those
Who gaze on this no more?

Oh, that like them 'twere ours to rest!
Daughter of heroes! thou art blest!"

A few short years, and in the lonely cave Where sleeps the Zegri maid, is Hamet's grave. Sever'd in life, united in the tomb

Such, of the hearts that loved so well, the doom! Their dirge, of woods and waves th' eternal

moan;

Their sepulchre, the pine-clad rocks alone. And oft beside the midnight watch-fire's blaze, Amidst those rocks, in long-departed days,

(When freedom fled, to hold, sequester'd there,
The stern and lofty councils of despair,)
Some exiled Moor, a warrior of the wild,
Who the lone hours with mournful strains beguiled,
Hath taught his mountain-home the tale of those
Who thus have suffer'd, and who thus repose.

THE WIDOW OF CRESCENTIUS.

["In the reign of Otho III. Emperor of Germany, the Romans, excited by their Consul, Crescentius, who ardently desired to restore the ancient glory of the Republic, made a bold attempt to shake off the Saxon yoke, and the authority of the popes, whose vices rendered them objects of universal contempt. The Consul was besieged by Otho in the Mole of Hadrian, which long afterwards continued to be called the Tower of Crescentius. Otho, after many unavailing attacks upon this fortress, at last entered into negotiations; and, pledging his imperial word to respect the life of Crescentius, and the rights of the Roman citizens, the unfortunate leader was betrayed into his power, and immediately beheaded, with many of his partisans. Stephania, his widow, concealing her affliction and her resentment for the insults to which she had been exposed, secretly resolved to revenge her husband and herself. On the return of Otho from a pilgrimage to Mount Gargano, which perhaps a feeling of remorse had induced him to undertake, she found means to be introduced to him, and to gain his confidence; and a poison administered by her was soon afterwards the cause of his painful death."-SISMONDI, History of the Italian Republics, vol. i.]

1 "J'étais allé passer quelques jours seuls à Tivoli. Je parcourus les environs, et surtout celles de la Villa Adriana. Surpris par la pluie au milieu de ma course, je me réfugiai dans les Salles des Thermes voisins du Pécile, (monumens de la villa,) sous un figuier qui avait renversé le pan d'un mur en s'élevant. Dans un petit salon octogone, ouvert devant moi, une vigne vierge avait percé la voûte de l'édifice, et son gros cep lisse, rouge, et tortueux, montait le long du mur comme un serpent. Autour de moi, à travers les arcades des ruines, s'ouvraient des points de vue sur la Campagne Romaine. Des buissons de sureau remplissaient les salles désertes où venaient se réfugier quelques merles solitaires.

The cypress, in funereal grace,

Usurps the vanish'd column's place; O'er fallen shrine and ruin'd frieze The wall-flower rustles in the breeze; Acanthus-leaves the marble hide

They once adorn'd in sculptured pride; And nature hath resumed her throne O'er the vast works of ages flown.

Was it for this that many a pile,
Pride of Ilissus and of Nile,
To Anio's banks the image lent
Of each imperial monument?1

Now Athens weeps her shatter'd fanes,
Thy temples, Egypt, strew thy plains;
And the proud fabrics Hadrian rear'd
From Tibur's vale have disappear'd.
We need no prescient sibyl there
The doom of grandeur to declare ;
Each stone, where weeds and ivy climb,
Reveals some oracle of Time;
Each relic utters Fate's decree-
The future as the past shall be.

Halls of the dead! in Tibur's vale, Who now shall tell your lofty tale? Who trace the high patrician's dome, The bard's retreat, the hero's home? When moss-clad wrecks alone record There dwelt the world's departed lord, In scenes where verdure's rich array Still sheds young beauty o'er decay, And sunshine on each glowing hill Midst ruins finds a dwelling still.

Sunk is thy palace-but thy tomb, Hadrian! hath shared a prouder doom.

Les fragmens de maçonnerie étaient tapissées de feuilles de scolopendre, dont la verdure satinée se dessinait comme un travail en mosaïque sur la blancheur des marbres: çà et là de hauts eyprés remplaçaient les colonnes tombées dans ces palais de la Mort; l'acanthe sauvage rampait à leurs pieds, sur des débris, comme si la nature s'était plu à reproduire sur ces chefs-d'œuvre mutilés d'architecture, l'ornement de leur beauté passée."-CHATEAUBRIAND's Souvenirs d'Italie.

1 The gardens and buildings of Hadrian's villa were copies of the most celebrated scenes and edifices in his dominionsthe Lyceum, the Academia, the Prytaneum of Athens, the Temple of Serapis at Alexandria, the Vale of Tempe, &c.

2 The mausoleum of Hadrian, now the castle of St Angelo, was first converted into a citadel by Belisarius, in his successful defence of Rome against the Goths. "The lover of the arts," says Gibbon, "must read with a sigh that the works of Praxiteles and Lysippus were torn from their lofty pedestals, and hurled into the ditch on the heads of the besiegers." He adds, in a note, that the celebrated Sleeping

Though vanish'd with the days of old
Its pillars of Corinthian mould;
Though the fair forms by sculpture wrought,
Each bodying some immortal thought,
Which o'er that temple of the dead
Serene but solemn beauty shed,
Have found, like glory's self, a grave

In time's abyss or Tiber's wave ;3
Yet dreams more lofty and more fair
Than art's bold hand hath imaged e'er,
High thoughts of many a mighty mind
Expanding when all else declined,
In twilight years, when only they
Recall'd the radiance pass'd away,
Have made that ancient pile their home,
Fortress of freedom and of Rome.

There he, who strove in evil days Again to kindle glory's rays, Whose spirit sought a path of light For those dim ages far too brightCrescentius-long maintain'd the strife Which closed but with its martyr's life, And left th' imperial tomb a name, A heritage of holier fame.

There closed De Brescia's mission high, From thence the patriot came to die ;*

Faun of the Barberini palace was found, in a mutilated state, when the ditch of St Angelo was cleansed under Urban VIII. In the middle ages, the Moles Hadriani was made a permanent fortress by the Roman government, and bastions, outworks, &c. were added to the original edifice, which had been stripped of its marble covering, its Corinthian pillars, and the brazen cone which crowned its summit.

3" Les plus beaux monumens des arts, les plus admirables statues, ont étés jetées dans le Tibre, et sont cachées sous ses flots. Qui sait si, pour les chercher, on ne le détournera pas un jour de son lit? Mais quand on songe que les chefsd'œuvres du génie humain sont peut-être là devant nous, et qu'un œil plus perçant les verrait à travers les ondes, l'on éprouve je ne sais quelle émotion, qui renaît à Rome sans cesse sous diverses formes, et fait trouver une société pour la pensée dans les objets physiques, muets partout ailleurs." -MAD. DE STAEL.

4 Arnold de Brescia, the undaunted and eloquent champion of Roman liberty, after unremitting efforts to restore the ancient constitution of the republic, was put to death in the year 1155 by Adrian IV. This event is thus described by Sismondi, Histoire des Republiques Italiennes, vol. ii. pages 68 and 69. "Le préfet demeura dans le château Saint Ange avec son prisonnier: il le fit transporter un matin sur la place destinée aux exécutions, devant la porte du peuple. Arnaud de Brescia, élevé sur un bûcher, fut attaché à un poteau, en face du Corso. Il pouvoit mésurer des yeux les trois longues rues qui aboutissoient devant son échafaud; elles font presqu' une moitié de Rome. C'est là qu'habitoient les hommes qu'il avoit si souvent appelés à la liberté. Ils reposoient encore en paix, ignorant le danger de leur législateur. Le tumulte de l'exécution et la flamme du bûcher

And thou, whose Roman soul the last
Spoke with the voice of ages past,1
Whose thoughts so long from earth had fled
To mingle with the glorious dead,
That midst the world's degenerate race
They vainly sought a dwelling-place,
Within that house of death didst brood
O'er visions to thy ruin woo'd.
Yet, worthy of a brighter lot,
Rienzi, be thy faults forgot!

For thou, when all around thee lay
Chain'd in the slumbers of decay-
So sunk each heart, that mortal eye
Had scarce a tear for liberty-
Alone, amidst the darkness there,
Couldst gaze on Rome yet not despair!

"Tis morn-and nature's richest dyes
Are floating o'er Italian skies;
Tints of transparent lustre shine
Along the snow-clad Apennine;
The clouds have left Soracte's height,
And yellow Tiber winds in light,

Where tombs and fallen fanes have strew'd
The wide Campagna's solitude.

"Tis sad amidst that scene to trace
Those relics of a vanish'd race;
Yet, o'er the ravaged path of time-
Such glory sheds that brilliant clime,
Where nature still, though empires fall,
Holds her triumphant festival-
E'en desolation wears a smile,

Where skies and sunbeams laugh the while;
And heaven's own light, earth's richest bloom,
Array the ruin and the tomb.

But she, who from yon convent tower Breathes the pure freshness of the hour;

réveillèrent les Romains; ils s'armèrent, ils accoururent, mais trop tard; et les cohortes du pape repoussèrent, avec leurs lances, ceux qui, n'ayant pu sauver Arnaud, vouloient du moins recueillir ses cendres comme de précieuses reliques."

1 "Posterity will compare the virtues and failings of this extraordinary man; but in a long period of anarchy and servitude, the name of Rienzi has often been celebrated as the deliverer of his country, and the last of the Roman patriots." -GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c. vol. xii. p. 362.

2 "Le consul Terentius Varron avoit fui honteusement jusqu'à Venouse. Cet homme, de la plus basse naissance, n'avoit été élevé au consulat que pour mortifier la noblesse : mais le sénat ne voulut pas jouir de ce malheureux triomphe; il vit combien il étoit nécessaire qu'il s'attirât dans cette occasion la confiance du peuple-il alla au-devant Varron, et le remercia de ce qu'il n'avoit pas désespéré de la republique."-MONTESQUIEU's Grandeur et Décadence des Romains.

She, whose rich flow of raven hair
Streams wildly on the morning air,
Heeds not how fair the scene below,
Robed in Italia's brightest glow.
Though throned midst Latium's classic plains
Th' Eternal City's towers and fanes,
And they, the Pleiades of earth,
The seven proud hills of Empire's birth,
Lie spread beneath; not now her glance
Roves o'er that vast sublime expanse ;
Inspired, and bright with hope, 'tis thrown
On Adrian's massy tomb alone;
There, from the storm, when Freedom fled,
His faithful few Crescentius led;
While she, his anxious bride, who now
Bends o'er the scene her youthful brow,
Sought refuge in the hallow'd fane,
Which then could shelter, not in vain.

But now the lofty strife is o'er,
And Liberty shall weep no more.
At length imperial Otho's voice
Bids her devoted sons rejoice;

And he, who battled to restore
The glories and the rights of yore,
Whose accents, like the clarion's sound,
Could burst the dead repose around,
Again his native Rome shall see

The sceptred city of the free !
And young Stephania waits the hour
When leaves her lord his fortress-tower—
Her ardent heart with joy elate,
That seems beyond the reach of fate;
Her mien, like creature from above,
All vivified with hope and love.

Fair is her form, and in her eye Lives all the soul of Italy; A meaning lofty and inspired, As by her native day-star fired; Such wild and high expression, fraught With glances of impassion'd thought, As fancy sheds, in visions bright, O'er priestess of the God of Light; And the dark locks that lend her face A youthful and luxuriant grace, Wave o'er her cheek, whose kindling dyes Seem from the fire within to rise, But deepen'd by the burning heaven To her own land of sunbeams given. Italian art that fervid glow Would o'er ideal beauty throw, And with such ardent life express

Her high-wrought dreams of loveliness,