The young and lovely girl his cruelty
Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake
Those thousand fond and kind remembrances
Which he had utterly abandon'd, while
The true heart he had treasured next his own
A little time had never ceased to beat
For only him, until it broke. She leant
Beside a casement when first Guido look'd
Upon her wasted beauty. 'Twas the brow,
The Grecian outline in its perfect grace,
That he had learn'd to worship in his youth
By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face
Was yet a treasure in his memory; -
But sunken were the temples, they had lost
Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day
The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids,
Just simply parted back, of the dark hair,
Where grief's white traces mock'd at youth. A flush,
As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek,
Then linger'd there for ever, look'd like health
Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip,
Like the rich crimson of the evening sky,
Brightest when night is coming. Guido took
Just one slight sketch; next morning she was dead!
Yet still he painted on, until his heart
Grew to the picture; it became his world;
He lived but in its beauty-made his art
Sacred to it alone. No more he gave
To the glad canvas green and summer dreams
Of the Italian valleys-traced no more
The dark eyes of its lovely daughters-look'd
And caught the spirit of fine poetry
From glorious statues,—these were pass'd away.
Shade after shade, line after line, each day
Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt
In intense worship on his own creation,
Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew,
And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night-
The portrait was just finish'd, save a touch,
A touch to give the dark light of the eyes-
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand
Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids
Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dreamt
That a fair creature came and kiss'd his brow,
And bade him follow her: he knew the look,
And rose. Awakening, he found himself
Kneeling before the portrait: 'twas so fair,
He deem'd it lived, and press'd his burning lips
To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,-
Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!
AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.
WEET Highland girl! a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks, this household lawn,
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water, that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth, together ye do seem
Like something fashion'd in a dream:
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep.
Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart!
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien or face
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here, scatter'd like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrass'd look of thy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer.
A face with gladness overspread;
Sweet looks, by human kindness bred,
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech—
A bondage sweetly brook'd-a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind
Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful!
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress—
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father-any thing to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven, that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place!
Joy have I had, and, going hence,
I bear away my recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last :
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now-the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall—
And thee, the spirit of them all!
BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)
LOOK'D upon his brow-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;
He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy—
A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that death could take, And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand-
He raised them haughtily;
And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now. Around he look'd with changeless brow On many a torture nigh
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel, And, worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before: he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate were of gold, And graved with many a dent that told Of many a soldier's deed;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
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