THE LONELY LIFE.

The morning rain, when, from her coop released, The hen, exulting, flaps her wings, when from The balcony the husbandman looks forth, And when the rising sun his trembling rays Darts through the falling drops, against my roof And windows gently beating, wakens me.

I rise, and grateful, bless the flying clouds, The cheerful twitter of the early birds, The smiling fields, and the refreshing air.

For I of you, unhappy city walls, Enough have seen and known; where hatred still Companion is to grief; and grieving still I live, and so shall die, and that, how soon!

But here some pity Nature shows, though small, Once in this spot to me so courteous!

Thou, too, O Nature, turn'st away thy gaze From misery; thou, too, thy sympathy Withholding from the suffering and the sad, Dost homage pay to royal happiness.

No friend in heaven, on earth, the wretched hath, No refuge, save his trusty dagger's edge.

Sometimes I sit in perfect solitude, Upon a hill, that overlooks a lake, That is encircled quite with silent trees.

There, when the sun his mid-day course hath reached, His tranquil face he in a mirror sees: Nor gra.s.s nor leaf is shaken by the wind; There is no ripple on the wave, no chirp Of cricket, rustling wing of bird in bush, Nor hum of b.u.t.terfly; no motion, voice, Or far or near, is either seen or heard.

Its sh.o.r.es are locked in quiet most profound; So that myself, the world I quite forget, As motionless I sit; my limbs appear To lie dissolved, of breath and sense deprived; As if, in immemorial rest, they seemed Confounded with the silent scene around.

O love, O love, long since, thou from this breast Hast flown, that was so warm, so ardent, once.

Misfortune in her cold and cruel grasp Has held it fast, and it to ice has turned, E'en in the flower of my youth. The time I well recall, when thou this heart didst fill; That sweet, irrevocable time it was, When this unhappy scene of life unto The ardent gaze of youth reveals itself, Expands, and wears the smile of Paradise.

How throbs the heart within the boyish breast, By virgin hope and fond desire impelled!

The wretched dupe for life's hard work prepares, As if it were a dance, or merry game.

But when _I_ first, O love, thy presence felt, Misfortune had already crushed my life, And these poor eyes with constant tears were filled.

Yet if, at times, upon the sun-lit slopes, At silent dawn, or when, in broad noonday, The roofs and hills and fields are shining bright, I of some lonely maiden meet the gaze; Or when, in silence of the summer night, My wandering steps arresting, I before The houses of the village pause, to gaze Upon the lonely scene, and hear the voice, So clear and cheerful, of the maiden, who, Her ditty chanting, in her quiet room, Her daily task protracts into the night, Ah, then this stony heart will throb once more; But soon, alas, its lethargy returns, For all things sweet are strangers to this breast!

Beloved moon, beneath whose tranquil rays The hares dance in the groves, and at the dawn The huntsman, vexed at heart, beholds the tracks Confused and intricate, that from their forms His steps mislead; hail, thou benignant Queen Of Night! How unpropitious fall thy rays, Among the cliffs and thickets, or within Deserted buildings, on the gleaming steel Of robber pale, who with attentive ear Unto the distant noise of horses and Of wheels, is listening, or the tramp of feet Upon the silent road; then, suddenly, With sound of arms, and hoa.r.s.e, harsh voice, and look Of death, the traveller's heart doth chill, Whom he half-dead, and naked, shortly leaves Among the rocks. How unpropitious, too, Is thy bright light along the city streets, Unto the worthless paramour, who picks His way, close to the walls, in anxious search Of friendly shade, and halts, and dreads the sight Of blazing lamps, and open balconies.

To evil spirits unpropitious still, To _me_ thy face will ever seem benign, Along these heights, where nought save smiling hills, And s.p.a.cious fields, thou offer'st to my view.

And yet it was my wayward custom once, Though I was innocent, thy gracious ray To chide, amid the haunts of men, whene'er It would my face to them betray, and when It would their faces unto me reveal.

Now will I, grateful, sing its constant praise, When I behold thee, sailing through the clouds, Or when, mild sovereign of the realms of air, Thou lookest down on this, our vale of tears.

Me wilt thou oft behold, mute wanderer Among the groves, along the verdant banks, Or seated on the gra.s.s, content enough, If heart and breath are left me, for a sigh!

CONSALVO.

Approaching now the end of his abode On earth, Consalvo lay; complaining once, Of his hard fate, but now quite reconciled, When, in the midst of his fifth l.u.s.tre, o'er His head oblivion, so longed-for, hung.

As for some time, so, on his dying day, He lay, abandoned by his dearest friends: For in the world, few friends to _him_ will cling, Who shows that he is weary of the world.

Yet _she_ was at his side, by pity led, In his lone wretchedness to comfort him, Who was alone and ever in his thought; Elvira, for her loveliness renowned; And knowing well her power; that a look, A single sweet and gracious word from _her_, A thousand-fold repeated in the heart, Devoted, of her hapless lover, still His consolation and support had been, Although no word of love had she from him E'er heard. For ever in his soul the power Of great desire had been rebuked and crushed By sovereign fear. So great a child and slave Had he become, through his excess of love!

But death at last the cruel silence broke; For being by sure signs convinced, that now The day of his deliverance had come, Her white hand taking, as she was about To leave, and gently pressing it, he said: "Thou goest; it is time for thee to go; Farewell, Elvira! I shall never see Thee more; too well I know it; so, farewell!

I thank thee for thy gentle sympathy, So far as my poor lips my thanks can speak.

_He_ will reward thee, who alone has power, If heaven e'er rewards the merciful."

Pale turned the fair one at these words; a sigh Her bosom heaved; for e'en a stranger's heart A throb responsive feels, when she departs, And says farewell forever. Fain would she Have contradicted him, the near approach Of fate concealing from the dying man.

But he, her thought antic.i.p.ating, said: "Ah, much desired, as well thou knowest, death, Much prayed for, and not dreaded, comes to me; Nay, joyful seems to me this fatal day, Save for the thought of losing thee forever; Alas, forever do I part from thee!

In saying this my heart is rent in twain.

Those eyes I shall no more behold, nor hear Thy voice. But, O Elvira, say, before Thou leavest me forever, wilt thou not One kiss bestow? A single kiss, in all My life? A favor asked, who can deny Unto a dying man? Of the sweet gift I ne'er can boast, so near my end, whose lips To-day will by a stranger's hand be closed Forever." Saying this, with a deep sigh, Her hand beloved he with his cold lips pressed.

The lovely woman stood irresolute, And thoughtful, for a moment, with her look, In which a thousand charms were radiant, Intent on that of the unhappy man, Where the last tear was glittering. Nor would Her heart permit her to refuse with scorn His wish, and by refusal, make more sad The sad farewell; but she compa.s.sion took Upon his love, which she had known so long; And that celestial face, that mouth, which he So long had coveted, which had, for years, The burden been of all his dreams and sighs, Close bringing unto his, so sad and wan, Discolored by his mortal agony, Kiss after kiss, all goodness, with a look Of deep compa.s.sion, on the trembling lips Of the enraptured lover she impressed.

What didst thou then become? How in thy eyes Appeared life, death, and all thy suffering, Consalvo, in thy flight now pausing? He The hand, which still he held, of his beloved Elvira, placing on his heart, whose last Pulsations love with death was sharing, said: "Elvira, my Elvira, am I still On earth? Those lips, were they thy lips? O, say!

And do I press thy hand? Alas, it seems A dead man's vision, or a dream, or thing Incredible! How much, Elvira, O, How much I owe to death! Long has my love Been known to thee, and unto others, for True love cannot be hidden on the earth.

Too manifest it was to thee, in looks, In acts, in my unhappy countenance, But never in my words. For then, and now, Forever would the pa.s.sion infinite, That rules my heart, be silent, had not death With courage filled it. I shall die content; Henceforth, with destiny, no more regret That I e'er saw the light. I have not lived In vain, now that my lips have been allowed Thy lips to press. Nay, happy I esteem My lot. Two precious things the world still gives To mortals, Love and Death. To one, heaven guides Me now, in youth; and in the other, I Am fortunate. Ah, hadst thou once, but once, Responded to my long-enduring love, To my changed eyes this earth for evermore Had been transformed into a Paradise.

E'en to old age, detestable old age, Could I have been resigned and reconciled.

To bear its heavy load, the memory Of one transcendent moment had sufficed, When I was happier than the happiest, But, ah, such bliss supreme the envious G.o.ds To earthly natures ne'er have given! Love In such excess ne'er leads to happiness.

And yet, thy love to win, I would have borne The tortures of the executioner; Have faced the rack and f.a.got, dauntlessly; Would from thy loving arms have rushed into The fearful flames of h.e.l.l, with cheerfulness.

"Elvira, O Elvira, happy he, Beyond all mortal happiness, on whom Thou dost the smile of love bestow! And next Is he, who can lay down his life for thee!

It _is_ permitted, it is not a dream, As I, alas, have always fancied it, To man, on earth true happiness to find.

I knew it well, the day I looked on thee.

That look to me, indeed, has fatal been: And yet, I could not bring myself, midst all My sufferings, that cruel day to blame.

"Now live, Elvira, happy, and adorn The world with thy fair countenance. None e'er Will love thee as I loved thee. Such a love Will ne'er be seen on earth. How much, alas, How long a time by poor Consalvo hast Thou been with sighs and bitter tears invoked!

How, when I heard thy name, have I turned pale!

How have I trembled, and been sick at heart, As timidly thy threshold I approached, At that angelic voice, at sight of that Fair brow, I, who now tremble not at death!

But breath and life no longer will respond Unto the voice of love. The time has pa.s.sed; Nor can I e'er this happy day recall.

Farewell, Elvira! With its vital spark Thy image so beloved is from my heart Forever fading. Oh, farewell! If this, My love offend thee not, to-morrow eve One sigh wilt thou bestow upon my bier."

He ceased; and soon he lost his consciousness: Ere evening came, his first, his only day Of happiness had faded from his sight.

TO THE BELOVED.

Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired, Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed, Save, when in visions of the night revealed, Or seen in daydreams bright, When all the fields are filled with light, And Nature's smile is sweet, Say, hast thou blessed Some golden age of innocence, And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?

Or hath Fate's envious doom Reserved thee for some happier day to come?

To see thee e'er alive, No hope remains to me; Unless perchance, when from this body free, My wandering spirit, lone, O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.

E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn, Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way: But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if One were in looks and acts and words thy peer, Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.

Amidst the deepest grief That fate hath e'er to human lot a.s.signed, Could one but love thee on this earth, Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee, He would be happy in his misery: And I most clearly see, how, still, As in my earliest days, Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.

Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought; And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.

Along the valleys where is heard The song of the laborious husbandman, And where I sit and moan O'er youth's illusions gone; Along the hills, where I recall with tears, The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years, At thought of thee, my heart revives again.

O could I still thy image dear retain, In this dark age, and in this baleful air!

To loss of thee, O let me be resigned, And in thy image still some comfort find!

If thou art one of those Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind Refused in earthly form to clothe, Nor would subject unto the pain and strife Of this, our frail and dreary life; Or if thou hast a mansion fair, Amid the boundless realms of s.p.a.ce, That lighted is by a more genial sun, And breathest there a more benignant air; From here, where brief and wretched are our days, Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!

TO COUNT CARLO PEPOLI.

This wearisome and this distressing sleep That we call life, O how dost thou support, My Pepoli? With what hopes feedest thou Thy heart? Say in what thoughts, and in what deeds, Agreeable or sad, dost thou invest The idleness thy ancestors bequeathed To thee, a dull and heavy heritage?

All life, indeed, in every walk of life, Is idleness, if we may give that name To every work achieved, or effort made, That has no worthy aim in view, or fails That aim to reach. And if you idle call The busy crew, that daily we behold, From tranquil morn unto the dewy eve, Behind the plough, or tending plants and flocks, Because they live simply to keep alive, And life is worthless for itself alone, The honest truth you speak. His nights and days The pilot spends in idleness; the toil And sweat in workshops are but idleness; The soldier's vigils, perils of the field, The eager merchant's cares are idle all; Because true happiness, for which alone Our mortal nature longs and strives, no man, Or for himself, or others, e'er acquires Through toil or sweat, through peril, or through care.

Yet for this fierce desire, which mortals still From the beginning of the world have felt, But ever felt in vain, for happiness, By way of soothing remedy devised, Nature, in this unhappy life of ours, Had manifold necessities prepared, Not without thought or labor satisfied; So that the days, though ever sad, less dull Might seem unto the human family; And this desire, bewildered and confused, Might have less power to agitate the heart.

So, too, the various families of brutes, Who have, no less than we, and vainly, too, Desire for happiness; but they, intent On that which is essential to their life, Consume their days more pleasantly, by far, Nor chide, with us, the dulness of the hours.

But _we_, who unto other hands commit The furnishing of our immediate wants, Have a necessity more grave to meet, For which no other ever can provide, With ennui laden, and with suffering; The stern necessity of killing time; That cruel, obstinate necessity, From which, nor h.o.a.rded gold, nor wealth of flocks, Nor fertile fields, nor sumptuous palaces, Nor purple robes, the race of man can save.

And if one, scorning such a barren life, And hating to behold the light of day, Turns not a homicidal hand upon Himself, antic.i.p.ating sluggish Fate, For the sharp sting of unappeased desire, That vainly calls for happiness, he seeks, In desperate chase, on every side, in vain, A thousand inefficient remedies, In lieu of that, which Nature gives to all.

One to his dress devotes himself, and hair, His gait and gesture and the learned lore Of horses, carriages, to crowded halls, To thronged piazzas, and to gardens gay; Another gives his nights and days to games, And feasts, and dances with the reigning belles: A smile perpetual is on his lips; But in his breast, alas, stern and severe, Like adamantine column motionless, Eternal ennui sits, against whose might Avail not vigorous youth, nor prattle fond That falls from rosy lips, nor tender glance That trembles in two dark and l.u.s.trous eyes; The most bewildering of mortal things, Most precious gift of heaven unto man.