Page:The Maremma.pdf/9

Yes! 'tis thy tomb, Bianca! fairest flower!
The voice that calls thee speaks in every gale
Which, o'er thee breathing with insidious power,
Bids the young roses of thy cheek turn pale,
And, fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.

But sink not yet—for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading,
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved than those
Of lingering Death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot,
’Tis Agony—but soon to be forgot!

What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler's breath
Shedding, as mildews on the bloom of spring,
O'er Infancy's fair cheek the blight of Death?
To gaze and shrink, as gathering shades o'ercast
The pale smooth brow, yet watch it, to the last!

Such Pangs were thine, young mother!—Thou didst bend
O'er thy fair boy, and raise his drooping head,
And faint and hopeless, far from every friend
Keep thy sad midnight-vigils near his bed,
And watch his patient, supplicating eye,
Fixed upon thee—on thee!—who couldst no aid supply!

There was no voice to cheer thy lonely woe
Through those dark hour—to thee the wind's low sigh,
And the faint murmur of the ocean's flow,
Came like some spirit whispering—"He must die!"
And thou didst vainly clasp him to the breast
His young and sunny smile so oft with Hope had blest.

'Tis past—that fearful trial—he is gone—
But thou, sad mourner! hast not long to weep,
The hour of Nature's chartered peace comes on,
And thou shalt share thine infant's holy sleep.
A few short sufferings yet—and Death shall be
As a bright messenger from Heaven to thee.