FROM IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE.

THE POET’S LAST DWELLING.

Oh! in this hallowed peace let me descend
To the dark chambers of the silent tomb!
And step by step, at length the journey end
Of this frail life—so dear—so fraught with gloom.
The parted day renewing beams attend;
But never from its long and quiet home
This dust shall rise, to gaze on mead or isle
With flowers bedecked, or sunset’s golden smile.
Perchance by those green hills some future day,
Hither a friend his listless step may turn,
And asking to my humble home the way,
The nameless stone that marks my bones may learn:
Reared ’neath yon oak where now full oft I stray,
When for cool shade and soft repose I yearn;
Where tranced in solemn thought I linger long,
Or pour in Zephyr’s ear my pensive song.
That very shade shall shelter me in death,
Which I so loved while life this frame did know;
These flowers that soothe me with their fragrant breath,
In rank luxuriance o’er my head shall grow.
‘Oh! happy thou who sleep’st this sod beneath!’
My friend will say—‘whose path, though lone and low,
Hath led thee to a better land at last,
Where thou canst smile at fate, nor feel his blast!’

TO EVENING.

Whether in smiles and tears, with dripping hair,
Spring gently woo thee to her flowery bed—
Or with white feet and glowing bosom bare,
To meet thee Summer bound with lightsome tread—
Or Autumn in thy lap with generous care
Delight his relics and his gifts to shed—
Thee, Evening! will I sing!—and my poor lay
Oh! may it e’er prolong thy welcome stay!

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

If thou with me among these hills couldst stray,
Glad wouldst thou mark my spirit’s graver tone;
Thou, who with mild reproach didst oft essay
To wake in me thoughts lofty as thine own.
From folly-nurtured love’s bewildering sway
To set me free, thy hand had power alone;
While I, though yet my heart to weakness clung,
With rapturous fondness on thy lessons hung.
But Oh! not yet—though heard no longer here—
The music of thy voice is dead to me!
It speaks within, in accents strong and clear,
Deep from the heart devoted still to thee.
And this its burthen—‘Is the shadowy bier
So dread a thing? So fearful can it be
In life’s warm prime to feel the spoiler’s blight?
Oh! not to those who know—to live aright!’