IX. And ye, pale violets, whose sweet breath hath driven X. Ye too must perish !—Wherefore now divide Tributes of love-first-offerings of the heart;Gifts-that so long have slumbered side by side; Tokens of feeling-never meant to part! XI. A long farewell :-sweet flowers, sad scrolls, adieu ! Yes, ye shall be companions to the last : So perish all that would revive anew But lo! the flames are curling swiftly 'round Page after page that searching blaze hath found, XIII. The Hindoo widow, in affection strong, Dies by her lord, and keeps her faith unbroken :Thus perish all which to those wrecks belong, The living memory-with the lifeless token! ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. BY MRS. HEMANS. O sanctissima, O purissima, Mater amata intemerata Ora, ora pro nobis. Sicilian Mariner's Hymn. 1. IN the deep hour of dreams, Through the dark woods, and past the moaning sea, And by the starlight gleams, Mother of Sorrows! lo, I come to thee. II. Unto thy shrine I bear Night-blowing flowers, like my own heart to lie, All, all unfolded there, Beneath the meekness of thy pitying eye. ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 41 III. For thou, that once didst move, In thy still beauty, through an earthly home, The fear of woman's soul; -to thee I come! IV. Many, and sad, and deep, Were the thoughts folded in thy silent breast; V. There is a wandering bark, Bearing one from me o'er the restless wave; Oh! let thy soft eye mark His course-be with him, Holiest ! guide and save! VI. My soul is on that way; My thoughts are travellers o'er the waters dim; I walk, o'ershadowed by vain dreams of him. VII. Aid him, and me too, aid! Oh! 'tis not well, this earthly love's excess! On thy weak child is laid The burthen of too deep a tenderness. 42 ITALIAN GIRL'S HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. VII. Too much o'er him is poured My being's hope-scarce leaving Heaven a part; Too fearfully adored, Oh! make not him the chastener of my heart! IX. I tremble with a sense Of grief to be-I hear a warning low- X. The troubled joy of life, Love's lightning happiness, my soul hath known, And, worn with feverish strife, Would fold its wings-take back, take back thine own! XI. Hark! how the wind swept by! The tempest's voice comes rolling o'er the wave Hope of the sailor's eye And maiden's heart! blest Mother, guide and save! AN INVOCATION TO BIRDS. BY BARRY CORNWALL. COME all ye feathery people of mid-air, Who sleep 'midst rocks, or on the mountain summits For suns to ripen, come !-O phoenix rare! |