PREFACE.

situation of the prince in the fairy tale, who, when in the vicinity of the magic fountain, found himself so distracted by the multitude of voices that directed his way, as to be quite incapable of deciding which was the right path. I allude to the blame and eulogy which have been equally bestowed on my frequent choice of love as my source of song. I can only say, that for a woman, whose influence and whose sphere must be in the affections, what subject can be more fitting than one which it is her peculiar province to refine, spiritual. ize, and exalt? I have always sought to paint it self-denying, devoted, and making an almost religion of its truth; and I must add, that such as I would wish to draw her, woman actuated by an attachment as intense as it is true, as pure as it is deep, is not only more admirable as a heroine, but also in actual life, than one whose idea of love is that of light amusement, or at worst of vain mortification. With regard to the frequent application of my works to myself, considering that I sometimes pourtrayed love unrequited, then betrayed, and again destroyed by death-may 1 hint the conclusions are not quite logically drawn, as assuredly the same mind cannot have suffered such varied modes of misery. However, if I must have an unhappy passion, I can only console myself with my own perfect unconsciousness of so great a misfortune. I now leave the following poems to their fate: they must speak for themselves. I could but express my anxiety, an anxiety only increased by a popularity beyond my most sanguine dreams.

DIFFIDENCE of their own abilities, and fear, | opinions offered have left me somewhat in the which heightens the anxiety for public favour, are pleas usually urged by the youthful writer: may I, while venturing for the first time to speak of myself, be permitted to say they far more truly belong to one who has had experience of both praise and censure. The feelings which attended the publication of the "Improvisatrice," are very different from those that accompany the present volume. I believe I then felt little beyond hope, vague as the timidity which subdued it, and that excitement which every author must know: now mine is a "farther looking hope ;" and the timidity which apprehended the verdict of others, is now deepened by distrust of my own powers. Or, to claim my poetical privilege, and express my meaning by a simile, I should say, I am no longer one who springs forward in the mere energy of exercise and enjoyment; but rather like the Olympian racer, who strains his utmost vigour, with the distant goal and crown in view. I have devoted my whole life to one object: in society I have but sought the material for solitude. I can imagine but one interest in existence,-that which has filled my past, and haunts my future, the perhaps vain desire, when I am nothing, of leaving one of those memories at once a good and a glory. Believing, as I do, in the great and excellent influence of poetry, may I hazard the expression of what I have myself sometimes trusted to do? A highly cultivated state of society must ever have for concomitant evils, that selfishness, the result of indolent indulgence; and that heartlessness attendant on refinement, which too often hardens while it polishes. Aware that to elevate I must first soften, and that if I wished to purify I must first touch, I have ever endeavoured to bring forward grief, disappointment, the fallen leaf, the faded flower, the broken heart, and the early grave. Surely we must be less worldly, less interested, from this sympathy with the sorrow in which our unselfish feelings alone can take part. And now a few words on a subject, where the variety of the

With regard to those whose former praise encouraged, their best recompense is the happiness they bestowed. And to those whose differing opinion expressed itself in censure, I own, after the first chagrin was past, I never laid down a criticism by which I did not benefit, or trust to benefit. I will conclude by apostrophizing the hopes and fears they excited, in the words of the Mexican king-"Ye have been the feathers of my wings."

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

Those subtle poisons which made science crime,
And knowledge a temptation; could we doubt
One moment the great curse upon our world,
We must believe, to find that even good
May thus be turn'd to evil.

THE VENETIAN BRACELET.

ANOTHER tale of thine! fair Italie-
What makes my lute, my heart, aye turn to thee?
I do not know thy language,—that is still
Like the mysterious music of the rill;—
And neither have I seen thy cloudless sky,
Where the sun hath his immortality;
Thy cities crown'd with palaces, thy halls
Where art's great wonders light the storied walls;
Thy fountains' silver sweep, thy groves, where
dwell

The rose and orange, summer's citadel;

Thy songs that rise at twilight on the air,

When worn, my nature struggling with my fate,
Checking my love, but, O, still more my hate;-
(Why should I love? flinging down pearl and gem
To those who scorn, at least care not for them:
Why should I hate? as blades in scabbards melt,
I have no power to make my hatred felt;
Or, I should say, my sorrow :-I have borne
So much unkindness, felt so lone, so lorn,
I could but weep, and tears may not redress,
They only fill the cup of bitterness)—
Wearied of this, upon what eager wings
My spirit turns to thee, and birdlike flings
Its best, its breath, its spring, and song o'er thee,
My lute's enchanted world, fair Italie.
To me thou art a vision half divine,

Wedding the breath thy thousand flowers sigh Of myriad flowers lit up with summer shine :

there;

Thy tales of other times, thy marble shrines,
Lovely, though fallen,-for the ivy twines
Its graceful wreath around each ruin'd fane,

As still in some shape beauty would remain.
I know them not, yet, Italie, thou art

The passionate rose, the violet's Tyrian dye,
The wild bee loves them not more tenderly;
Of vineyards like Aladdin's gem set hall,
Fountains like fairy ones with music's fall;
Of sorrows, too; for e'en on this bright soil
Grief has its shadow, and care has its coil,

The promised land that haunts my dreaming But e'en amid its darkness and its crime,

heart.

Perchance it is as well thou art unknown:

I could not bear to lose what I have thrown
Of magic round thee,—but to find in thee
What hitherto I still have found in all-
Thou art not stamp'd with that reality

Touch'd with the native beauty of such clime,
Till wonder rises with each gushing tear :-
And hath the serpent brought its curse even here?
Such is the tale that haunts me: I would fain
Wake into pictured life the heart's worst pain;
And seek I if pale cheek and tearful eye

Which makes our being's sadness, and its Answer the notes that wander sadly by.
thrall!

But now, whenever I am mix'd too much
With worldly natures till I feel as such;—
(For these are as the waves that turn to stone,
Till feeling's keep their outward show alone)—
When wearied by the vain, chill'd by the cold,
Impatient of society's set mould-
The many meannesses, the petty cares,
The long avoidance of a thousand snares,
The lip that must be chain'd, the eye so taught
To image all but its own actual thought;-
(Deceit is this world's passport: who would
dare

However pure the breast, to lay it bare ?)—

And say not this is vain, in our cold world,
Where feelings sleep like wither'd leaves unfurl'd.
"Tis much to wash them with such gentle rain,
Calling their earlier freshness back again.
The heart of vanity, the head of pride,
Touch'd by such sorrow, are half purified;
And we rise up less selfish, having known
Part in deep grief, yet that grief not our own.

J.

They stood beside the river, that young pair-
She with her eyes cast down, for tears were there,
Glittering upon the eyelash, though unshed;
He murmuring those sweet words so often said

By parting lover, still as fondly spoken
As his could be, the only ones not broken.
The girl was beautiful; her forehead high
Was white as are the marble fanes that lie
On Grecian lands, making a fitting shrine
Where the mind spoke; the arch'd and raven line
Was very proud, but that was soften'd now,-
Only sad tenderness was on her brow.
She wore the peasant dress,-the snowy lawn
Closely around her whiter throat was drawn,
A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue
So short, the fairy ankle was in view;
The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve,
But the small hand was snow; around her hair
A crimson net, such as the peasants weave,

Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare.
She wore the rustic dress, but there was not
Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot:
Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued
By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood-
The parting hour of love. And there they leant,
Mirror'd below in the clear element

That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung,
And colour'd blossoms that together clung-
That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier,
Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,
And answer'd by flush'd cheek, and downcast eye,
And roselip parted, with half smile, half sigh.
Young, loving, and beloved, these are brief
words,

And yet they touch on all the finer chords,
Whose music is our happiness: the tone
May die away and be no longer known
In the harsh wisdom brought by after years,
Lost in that worldliness which scars and sears,
And makes the misery of life's troubled scene;-
Still it is much to think that it has been.
They loved with such deep tenderness and truth,-
Feelings forsaking us as does our youth,―

The beat of heart, the flush of cheek, are gone,
AMENAÏDE but felt she was alone.

The vow which soothed her, and the hope which
cheer'd,

The pride which nerved, with him had disap-
pear'd.

"LEONI, dear LEONI !"-'twas in vain :-
The mocking echo answer'd her again.
-It is deep wretchedness, this passionate burst
Of parting's earlier grief, but not the worst;
It is the lingering days of after care,
That try the wasted spirit most to bear.
Now listless, languid, as the world had left
Nothing to interest, of him bereft ;
Now lull'd by opiate thoughts that but restore
The mind its tone, to make it sink the more;
Now fever'd by anxiety, for rife

Are fears when fancy calls them into life;
And then that nameless dread of coming wo,
Which only those who've felt it ere can know:
These still have been in absence, still will be,
And these, AMENAÏDE, were all for thee.

The valley in a summer twilight lay-
That fairy confine of the night and day—
When leant AMENAÏDE behind the shade
The fragrant shrubs around her lattice made,
'Scaped from her nurse and each consoling phrase
Sinking the spirit that it fain would raise.
The room was small and dark; but when the
wind

stand,

Moved the green branches of the myrtle-blind, A crimson beauty woo'd the maiden's eye :She look'd and saw, where, dark against the sky, His father's battlement's rose on the air;Alas, how haughty and how high they were! An orphan she, a rustic's nursling child, O, how could hope have ever so beguiled! "AMENAÏDE!" her kind old nurse's voice; "Nay, come to me, dear child, come and rejoice." They did not dream that love like theirs could die, Wondering, she enters, strangers round her And such belief half makes eternity. Yes, they were parting; still the fairy hope Had in their clear horizon ample scope For her sweet promises without the showers That are their comrades in life's after hours. They parted trustingly; they did not know The vanity of youthful trust and vow; And each believed the other, for each read In their own hearts the truth of what each said. The dews are drying rapidly :-away, Young warrior! those far banners chide thy stay. Hark! the proud trumpet swells upon the wind,His first of fields, he must not be behind.

And kindly takes their lordly chief her hand. "So fair a peasant, sooth, but it is shame

To tell thee, maiden of another name.

In the wild troubles which have rent our state
Thy noble father met an exile's fate:-
Nay, not that anxious look; he is no more,
And sorrowing Genoa can but restore
His honours to his child: I was aware,
Thanks to that faithful creature's parent care,
His daughter lived; and dear the task to me
To bring these words, and let AREZZI be
The first to greet and honour, countess, mine,

The maiden's cheek flush'd crimson, and her Loveliest, and last of ALFIORI's line.

eye

Flash'd as the martial music floated by.

She saw him spring upon his snow-white steed,-
It dash'd across the plain with arrowy speed.

II.

Fit for a palace was that lovely room,-
Hung with the azure of an eastern loom,