III.

Now fair thou art,

Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!
Yet all the vision that within me wrought,

I cannot make thee! Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought,

I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,
Things not of such as die! But I have been
Too much alone; a heart whereon to lean,
With all these deep affections, that o'erflow
My aching soul, and find no shore below;

An

eye to be my star, a voice to bring

Hope o'er my path, like sounds that breathe of spring,

These are denied me-dreamt of still in vain,—

Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain,

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,

Rising triumphantly, to die ere long

In dirge-like echoes.

IV.

Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work, in thee,

Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed From storms a shelter,-give the drooping vine Something round which its tendrils may entwine,—

Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame! That in his bosom wins not for my name

Th' abiding-place it ask'd! Yet how my heart,
In its own fairy world of song and art,

Once beat for praise !-Are those high longings o'er?
That which I have been can I be no more?—

Never, oh! never more; tho' still thy sky

Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!

And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill
Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,
And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams,
Unchang'd on forms, instinct with poet-dreams;

Never, oh! never more!

Where'er I move,

The shadow of this broken-hearted love

Is on me and around! Too well they know,
Whose life is all within, too soon and well,
When there the blight hath settled;—but I go
Under the silent wings of peace to dwell;

From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,
"in vain,"

The inward burning of those words

Sear'd on the heart-I go. 'Twill soon be past. Sunshine, and song, and bright Italian heaven,

And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit cast Unvalued wealth,-who know'st not what was given In that devotedness,-the sad, and deep, And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep Once, only once, belov❜d one! on thy breast, Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest! But that were happiness, and unto me Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be So richly blest! With thee to watch the sky, Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;

With thee to listen, while the tones of song
Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,

To listen silently ;-with thee to gaze

On forms, the deified of olden days,

This had been joy enough;-and hour by hour, From its glad well-springs drinking life and power, How had my spirit soar'd, and made its fame

A glory for thy brow!-Dreams, dreams!-the fire Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre When its full chords are hush'd-awhile to live, And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad thoughts of me:-I leave it, with a sound,

A spell o'er memory, mournfully profound,

I leave it, on my country's air to dwell,

Say proudly yet-"'Twas her's who lov'd me well!"

GERTRUDE,

OR FIDELITY TILL DEATH.

The Baron Von Der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von Der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death.