My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse;
And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home!
Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse,
And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,
Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask Orient gems,
Diamonds and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By cunning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit
Around thy stately bower; and, at a wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo !
Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! not a bachelor
In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.
Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!
Wilt have a list to choose from?
If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle,
And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them
Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall?
And if, at eventide, they heard not oft
A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice,
Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song
O'erwhelm'd the quivering instruments; and then
A world of whispers, mix'd with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales.
Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart,
That throbbing heart of thine, keeps such a coil,
I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd
To Rome; he left thee on mine errand, dear one.
And now Is there no casement myrtle-wreath'd,
No cedar in our courts, to shade to-night
Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart,
Mine own beloved child. Thou shalt be first
In Rome, as thou art fairest; never princess
Brought to the proud Colonna such a dower
As thou. Young Angelo hath chosen his mate
From out an eagle's nest.
I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think
Of the hot barons, of the fickle people,
And the inconstancy of power, I tremble
For thee, dear father.
Rien. Tremble! let them tremble:
I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd,
Endured, protected.-Sweet, go dream of love!
I am their master, Claudia!
HAIL to the gentle bride! the dove
High nested in the column's crest!
Oh, welcome as the bird of love,
Who bore the olive-sign of rest!
Hail to the gentle bride! the flower
Whose garlands round the column twine!
Oh, fairer than the citron bower,
More fragrant than the blossom'd vine!
Hail to the gentle bride! the star
Whose radiance o'er the column beams
Oh, soft as moonlight seen afar—
A silver shine on trembling streams!
Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock,
Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed?
Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks
Started to see the proud lobelia glow
Like living flame? When through the forest gleam'd The rhododendron? or the fragrant breath
Of the magnolia swept deliciously
O'er the half laden nerve?
In fleeting colors wrote their own decay,
And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen'd blast
That sang their dirge; when o'er their rustling bed
The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail,
Heavy of wing and fearful; when, with heart
Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd
The signs of coming winter: then began
The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze,
Soft and illusive as a fairy dream,
Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold.
The quiet rivers that were wont to hide
'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd
By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept,
While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky
Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged
In the same element. Slowly the sun,
And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved
And then it took upon its parting wing
A rainbow glory.
Gorgeous was the time,
Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee,
Our brother hunter, but to us replete
With musing thoughts in melancholy train.
Our joys, alas! too oft were woe to thee,
Yet ah, poor Indian! whom we fain would drive
Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands,
The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown,
And when we would forget, repeat thy name.
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