Alike so very fair, so very frail!
It was within this bower they wont to meet;
And one amid their many parting vows
Was, that the twilight should be consecrate
Still to each other; and, though far away,
Their thoughts, at least, should blend. And Isabel
Vow'd to the pale Madonna that one hour;
And said that every setting sun should hear
Her orisons, within that lonely bower,
Rise for Cesario. It was twilight now,
And the young warrior deem'd that he should meet
In her green temple his beloved one.
'Twas a sweet solitude, and mingled well
Present and past together; myrtle stems
Shook silver flowers from their blossom'd boughs,
And in the shelter of a cypress tree
Stood the Madonna's image, the white arms
Cross'd in the deep humility of love.
Heavenward the sweet and solemn brow was raised,
And lips, whose earthly loveliness yet seem'd
To feel for earthly misery, had prayers
Upon their parted beauty; and around
Roses swung perfume from their purple urns.
He waited there until the laurel leaves,
With silver touched, grew mirrors for the moon;
But yet she came not near—at length he saw
Her lute flung careless on the ground, with rust
Upon its silver strings, and by its side
A wreath of wither'd flowers. He gazed no more—
His heart was as if frozen—it had sunk
At once from its high pitch of happiness.—
He sought her father's palace, for his fear
Was more than he could suffer:—there he learnt
His own, his beautiful, was in the grave;
And, it was told, laid there by love of him.
He stay'd no question, but rush'd to the church,
Where gold soon won his entrance to her tomb.
Scarce the lamp show'd the dim vault where he stood
Before the visible presence of the dead.
And down the warrior bow'd his face, and wept
For very agony, or ere he nerved
His eye to gaze on that once worshipp'd brow.
At last he look'd—'twas beautiful as life,—
The blue vein lighted up the drooping lid,—
The hair like sunshine lay upon the cheek,
Whose rose was yet like summer,—and the lip,
He could not choose but kiss it, 'twas so red:—
He started from its touch, for it was warm,
And there was breath upon it,—and the heart,
As if it only lived to beat for him,
Now answer'd to his own. No more, no more!—
Why lengthen out the tale?—words were not made
For happiness so much as sorrowing.
The legend of the buried bride is yet
A household history in Genoa,
Told by young lovers, in their day of hope,
Encouraging themselves, as to the fate
That waits fidelity. L. E. L.
