Was turned to funeral pomp-the company, With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; nor they Who loved the dead went weeping on their way Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes, On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain, Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again. The lamps which, half extinguished in their haste, Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned feast, Showed as it were within the vaulted room A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom Had passed out of men's minds into the air. Some few yet stood around Gherardi there, Friends and relations of the dead,—and he, A loveless man, accepted torpidly The consolation that he wanted not, Awe in the place of grief within him wrought. Some melted into tears without a sob, And some with hearts that might be heard to throb Shuddered to hear through the deserted halls * * * * THE DIRGE. OLD winter was gone In his weakness back to the mountains hoar, From the planet that hovers upon the shore She is still, she is cold On the bridal couch, One step to the white death-bed, And one to the bier, And one to the charnel-and one, Oh where ? In the noon. Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled, The rats in her heart Will have made their nest, And the worms be alive in her golden hair; While the spirit that guides the sun Sits throned in his flaming chair, She shall sleep. * * * * EVENING. PONTE A MARE, PISA. THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep; There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town. Within the surface of the fleeting river It trembles, but it never fades away; You, being changed, will find it then as now. The chasm in which the sun has sunk, is shut Which the keen evening star is shining through. THE BOAT, ON THE SERCHIO. OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, Day had kindled the dewy woods And the rocks above and the stream below, And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free; The crickets were still in the meadow and hill : Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, All rose to do the task He set to each, And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire ;- With streams and fields and marshes bare, What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of? If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness, And of the miles of watery way We should have led her by this time of day."— "Never mind," said Lionel, "Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see! The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night. |