172
CRUCE AND CORONA.
And, human consolation void of pow'r,They leave her with her sorrow, and with God.
Soft breezes o'er the tranquil waters blow,And waft the homeward vessel on its way;And on Italia's sunset-lighted shoresAt last in anchorage it safely rests.But oh! the glory of Italian skiesNo joy of beauty to the orphan brings.And in her studio once more, alone,The throngs of memories that o'er her rushUnseal at last the fountain of her tears. Night passes. In the twilight of the mornThe star of dawn beholds her weeping still.But not in cloudless splendor doth the sunBegin this day his journey through the heav'ns.His brightness mists are veiling; and the cloudsEre long drop down upon the earth their tears.All nature seems to weep. The trees that shadeThe orphan's window without ceasing weep,And vines that wreathe the pillars of yon dome,The temple of her art, bend ev'ry leafAll heavy-freighted with the crystal drops.
It is the sunset now; and never gleamedA brighter sunset o'er this sunny land.On golden-tinted, crimson-bordered clouds
