And murmured whispers of the distant land
Came to her ear at eve-and to her sight,
Wrought from the earth by sweet religion's wand,
Heaven smiled upon her in her dreams at night;
And angels hovered o'er in purest white.
Such intimations dim, perchance, and faint,
Shadows of joys unutterably bright,

To one by faith redeemed from mortal taint,
Precede the parting soul, and form a living saint.

And now Vincenzo saw the bitter truth,

From day to day, from hour to hour, more clear,
That she was surely dying,-yet the youth
Spake not a word-nor dared to shed a tear;
All things that live but signs of death appear;
Silence, the voice of nature, breathed around
The ever-present word into his ear;

And wheresoe'er he walked, a hollow sound

Of universal death spoke from the senseless ground.

With fearful hope he dreamed she would not die,
And uttered oft such words of

sorry mirth
As seemed like madness mocking misery
For lack of joy-he knew for all the worth
Of all the dearest blessings of the earth,
He could not save that precious life, and
Hope, a deceiver ever from its birth,

Almost its very nature to forget,

yet,

Wrings present ease by force from misery's regret.

To bless or curse alike the hour arrives
With even pace, and strict unerring will;
And human strength is helpless in the gyves
Wherewith the unknown presence binds us still:
Unlike our happiness, the cup of ill

Stands ever full, which we must raise perforce
With steadfast hand, that not a drop may spill;
Alas! the draught we know not, nor the source,
We only know our hopes are crushed without remorse.

And Viola is dead-and bitter rue,

And rosemary upon her corse are thrown, And all that to the sacred dead is due From fond affection's pious love, is done; And she is laid in the dark earth alone: And grey oblivion settles round her urn, As sluggish moss that gathers o'er a stone, Which far away in woods or wildest fern, Lies where no mortal step hath ever chanced to turn.

Oh! she is dead

and nature knows no more
Her footstep on the hill or meadows green;
And nothing can her presence back restore,
And never more shall she on earth be seen; -
The morn will rise as she had never been.
These bootless thoughts Vincenzo's soul possest
The pulse of his strong agony between;
Stretched on the earth, the heaving of his breast

Throbbed as his heart it fain would from his bosom wrest.

Yes- she is dead- and never from those lips
Breathes word, or sigh, or note of love again;
Those gentle eyes are buried in eclipse,

That never fired with scorn, or looked disdain,
Or glanced to give a human creature pain.
The burning tears that fell upon her bier,
Now she is laid in earth, are weak and vain ;
Those lovely limbs his fancy held so dear,
Impel with swift decay the working of the year.

And thus it is we die-the petty spoil

Of nature-thrust, when yet the blood is warm,
To fatten and enrich the hungry soil;
And thus the loveliest or the proudest form
Is lorded o'er by the patrician worm!

Thus do we rise and hasten to the shroud,

As angry bubbles borne upon the storm,

That for a moment but reflect the cloud, Then sink into a grave the weary keel hath ploughed.

Oh! deem not so-if ever love hath shed

One tear for thee,- or dying breathed a prayer;
Oh! whisper not that insult to the dead,
Which hope excludes, and aggravates despair;
Rather, her gentle memory thy care,

Recal what the insensate earth denies :

Of all that lived-which was accounted fair? Not that the earth hath hidden from our eyes, But the immortal soul which now adorns the skies.

Be wise-be constant-love hath triumphed now
In his own likeness, what shall virtue say,
But that the loveliest form her hands endow

Is scattered to the wind of heaven, as spray
That sparkles in our sunless every-day.

Oh! dream not that, to greet our vague pursuit,
The earliest blossom ripens during May;

Enough if to our eyes the promised fruit

Glow in the fields of heaven, and our sad hearts recruit.

Though love be dead, and beauty-yet believe
All that was loved and beauteous is not dead;
This thought shall soften every sigh you heave,
This hope shall wipe away each tear you shed;
All the grey sorrows of a youthful head
Shall with a circling halo shew more bright,
And mild religion hover o'er thy bed;

The shades of eve shall bring a softer night,
And rosy morn shall spread in liquid chrysolite !

The past shall stead you—and the future raise;
'Tis not to bear a forced existence on,
And piece the wretched remnant out with praise,
That Heaven demands, or will suffice alone :
Let every day for every hour atone,

For now is even a portion of the past;

There is no present-name it, and tis gone. Oh! be thy hope, love, virtue, wisdom, cast Before you; and content, the harbour, smiles at last.

THE FISHERMAN OF THE CALABRESE LAKE.

An Italian Legend.

THE Confluence of the streams from the chain of hills above Tropœa forms one of the most beautiful lakes in Italy. Yet, while the little pond of Nemi, and a hundred others equally minute, make the perpetual theme of tourists, flourish in the road book, are worshipped with perpetual offerings of the worst verses in all languages by the poets of albums, are sonnetted and improvised daily even by the Italians themselves,-the lovely and magnificent expanse of Santa Rosa is never heard of beyond the villages on its violet-fringed border. The reason probably is, that Fashion has not yet spread her pinions over this noble, though, it must be owned, rather primitive, portion of Bella Italia. The danger of the journey is not the reason; for let Fashion issue her commands, and all the robbers of Arabia, pike in hand, could not prevent barouch and britchka-fulls of the fairest of the fair, and the finest of the fine, from driving ventre à terre to the spot in question. The beggarliness of the accommodations is not the reason; for what is the best of watering-places but a contrivance to cramp the limbs by want of room, to inoculate