Sivut kuvina

And now again, advancing nigh,
Again she hears the infant cry,
Tapping the snake, “ Keep further, do ;
Mind, Gray Pate, what I say to you."
The danger's o'er, she sees the boy
(Oh, what a change from fear to joy !)
Rise and bid the snake “good by;"
Says he, “ Our breakfast's done, and I
Will come again to-morrow day;"
Then lightly tripping, ran away.

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Alas! I am an orphan boy,

With nought on earth to cheer my heart; No father's love, no mother's joy,

Nor kin nor kind to take my part.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground;

Í eat the bread of charity;
And when the kiss of love goes round

There is no kiss, alas! for me.
Yet once I had a father dear,

A mother too I wont to prize, With ready hand to wipe the tear,

If chanced a transient tear to rise. But cause of tears was rarely found,

For all my heart was youthful glee ; And when the kiss of love went round,

How sweet a kiss there was for me!
But ah! there came a war they say,

What is a war, I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,

And loudly rang our village-bell.
In truth it was a pretty sound

I thought, nor could I once foresee That when the kiss of love went round,

There soon would be no kiss for me. A scarlet coat my father took,

And sword as bright as bright could be; And feathers, that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound;

Alas! I thought it fine to see ;
Nor dreamt that when the kiss went round,

There soon would be no kiss for me.

At length the bell again did ring;

There was a victory, they said ; 'Twas what


father said he'd bring;
But ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shrieked; her heart was wo:

She clasped me to her trembling knee.
Oh God! that you may never know

How wild a kiss she gave to me!


But once again—but once again,

These lips a mother's kisses felt.
That once again—that once again-

The tale a heart of stone would melt
'Twas when, upon her death-bed laid,

Oh God! Oh God! that sight to see!
“My child !-my child!" she feebly said,

And gave a parting kiss to me.



She stood before the dying man,

And her eye grew wildly bright-
Ye will not pause for a woman's ban,

Nor shrink from a woman's might;
And his glance is dim that made you fly,

before have fled :
Look, dastards how the brave can die

Beware!-he is not dead!

By his blood you have tracked him to his lair!

Would you bid the spirit part?He that durst harm one single hair

Must reach it through my heart.
I cannot weep,

brain is dry-
Nor plead, for I know not how;
But my aim is sure, and the shaft may fly,
And the bubbling life-blood flow!

for my

Yet leave me, while dim life remains,

To list his parting sigh ;
To kiss away those

gory stains,
To close his beamless eye!
Ye will not ! no—he triumphs still,

Whose foes his death-pangs dread-
His was the power-yours but the will:

Back-back-he is not dead!

His was the power that held in thrall,

Through many a glorious year,
Priests, burghers, nobles, princes, all

Slaves worship, hate, or fear.
Wrongs, insults, injuries thrust him forth

A bandit chief to dwell;
How he avenged his slighted worth,
Ye, cravens,


tell !
His spirit lives in the mountain breath,

It flows in the mountain wave;
Rock-stream-hath done the work of death,

Yon deep ravine-the grave !
That which hath been again may be !

Ah! by yon fleeting sun,
Who stirs, no morning ray shall see-

His sand of life has run!”
Defiance shone in her flashing eye,

But her heart beat wild with fear ;-
She starts—the bandit's last faint sigh

Breathes on her sharpened ear-
She gazes on each stiffening limb,

And the death-damp chills her brow ;-
“For him I lived-I die with him!
Slaves, do


office now !"



I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered thro' their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was

o'er, They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard

of more



And there I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear :
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous;
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus :-

“It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells ;
But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When, from my children on the green, I heard a fearful

cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

I hurried out to learn the cause ; but overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care ; But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing thro'

the air.


Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye,-
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry;
And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail that innocent to save!
My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free:
At intervals I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and

Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew;
A mote, upon the sun's broad face, he seemed unto my view;
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight,
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.

All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was

ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From thence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached !

I clambered


that rugged cliff,—I could not stay away,I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;

A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred; The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head.”

That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by,
Who often stand, and musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me whereon the infant lay.

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She was an only child, her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francisco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And in the lustre of her youth she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francisco.

Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried,
6. 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

'Twas but that instant she had left Francisco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But, now,

alas she was not to be found ;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not !

Weary of his life,
Francisco flew to Venice, and embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
The father lived, and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something;
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,

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