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ROSALIND AND HELEN,
A MODERN ECLOGUE.
ADVERTISEMENT TO ROSALIND AND HELEX, ác
Nanos, Dec. 20, 212 THE story of Rosalind and Helen is undoubtedly not an arrange in the b est style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite pros t atan : 2012 by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awaler a Creative melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impresa , P A in the reader all that the writer experienced in the capita. I 16-21. mysel, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings which mould we area of inst and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure will cry pretends to regular, inasmuch as it corresponds with and expresses me tears of the imaginations which inspire it.
I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in Englass » be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One, which I sett fra Itzy, was writve after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains who Bur u nas ont the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any is et t's condemn the insertion of the introductory ines, which image foute wurden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions de red by this son burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, on the highest peak of these dezz
a ins, I can only offer as my excuse that they were not erasers at the request of a dear friend with whom added years of intercourse only add to my appreterson its vaise, and who would have had more right than any one to come. La ste tas not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadress.
SCENE.—The Shore of the Lake of Como.
'Tis long since thou and I have met :
Those moments to forget.
Thy sweet voice to each tone of even
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
Ere we were disunited ?
Will be but ill requited
Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,
Were dearer than these chesnut woods;
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
That cannot be. Rosalind, speak,
I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken.
But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token
Thy tainting touch ; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;
But weep for thee; mine own strange grief
What to the evil world is due,
To link me with the infamy.
Bewildered by my dire despair,
Shouldst love me still—thou only :-There,
The murmur of this lake to hear.
A sound from there, Rosalind dear,
In the dell of yon dark chesnut wood
Less like our own :—The ghost of Peace
If thy kind feelings should not cease,
Thou lead, my sweet,
'Tis Fenici's seat
Mamma ; it leads behind those trees that grow
Yes, I know;
I do not know :
We are quite merry now.-Good night.
The boy Listed a sudden look upon his mother;
And, in the gleam of forced and hollow joy
And whispered in her ear, “Bring home with you
Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while, Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.
In silence then they took the way
Through which they took their way;
Still deeper solitude.
To a deep lawny dell they came,
O'er which the columned wood did frame
The overhanging deity.
Now spangled with rare stars. The snake,
Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake,
In the light of his own loveliness;
The fitful wind is heard to stir
The chirping of the grasshopper
Fills every pause. There is emotion
In all that dwells at noontide here :
A maze of life and light and motion
Only the shadows creep;
And the owls have all fled far away
On her accustomed bough;
This silent spot tradition old
Had peopled with the spectral dead. For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told
That a hellish shape at midnight led The ghost of a youth with hoary hair, And sate on the seat beside him there,
Till a naked child came wandering by,
For here a sister and a brother
Had they resigned to one another
And stabbed and trampled on its mother ;