Evening-a banquet-the ghost of Cazziva. THE tamarind closed her leaves; the marmoset Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew, And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew; When many a fire-fly, shooting thro' the glade, Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid, L L Who now danced forth to strew our path with flowers, There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite, But whence that sigh? 'Twas from a heart that broke! Whose lips have moved in prayer from age to age; The gathering signs of a long night of woe; * P. Martyr. dec. i. 5. -With sudden spring as at the shout of war, * Hark, o'er the busy mead the shell proclaims* Triumphs, and masques, and high heroic games. And now the old sit round; and now the young Climb the green boughs, the murmuring doves among. Who claims the prize, when winged feet contend; When twanging bows the flaming arrows send? † Who stands self-centred in the field of fame, And, grappling, flings to earth a giant's frame? Whilst all, with anxious hearts and eager eyes, Bend as he bends, and, as he rises, rise! And CORA's self, in pride of beauty here, Trembles with grief and joy, and hope and fear! (She who, the fairest, ever flew the first, With cup of balm to quench his burning thirst; Knelt at his head, her fan-leaf in her hand, And hummed the air that pleased him, while she fanned) How blest his lot!-tho', by the Muse unsung, His name shall perish, when his knell is rung. *P. Martyr. dec. iii. c. 7. + Rochefort. c. xx. That night, transported, with a sigh I said ""Tis all a dream!"-Now, like a dream, 'tis fled; And many and many a year has passed away, And I alone remain to watch and pray! Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw, Oft I awake and think on what I saw ! The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, And CORA, loveliest, sweetest of them all! CANTO XII. A Vision. STILL Would I speak of Him before I went, Still, if the time allowed! My Hour draws near; Twice the Moon filled her silver urn with light. Then from the Throne an Angel winged his flight; He, who unfixed the compass, and assigned O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind; Day broke on day as God Himself were there! |