"Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" "Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, "Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, I bring not my childhood's heart again "I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd The prayer at my mother's knee; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, "But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And oh ye scenes of those bless'd years, They shall make me again your own." MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice, In her small housewifery, the blithest bee Cla Oh! mine old home! Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird? Cla. Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; 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, In Christendom but would right proudly kneel Cla. Oh! mine own dear home! Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet! 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, Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart, Cla. Oh, father! father! Rien. Now, Back to thy maidens, with a lighten'd heart, Cla. Alas! alas ! I tremble at the height. Whene'er I think Of the hot barons, of the fickle people, And the inconstancy of power, I tremble Rien. Tremble! let them tremble: I am their master, Claudia! whom they scorn'd, SONG. HAIL to the gentle bride! the dove 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 scen afar A silver shine on trembling streams! |