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The holy time is quiet as a Nun,
'TIS Evening.-On Abruzzo's hill The summer sun is lingering still,— As though unwilling to bereave
The landscape of its softest beam,So fair,-one can but look and grieve To think, that, like a lovely dream, A few brief fleeting moments more Must see its reign of beauty o'er!
'Tis Evening;-and a general hush
Prevails, save when the mountain spring Bursts from its rock, with fitful gush,
And makes melodious murmuring;Or when from Corno's height of fear,
The echoes of its convent bell Come wafted on the far-off ear
With soft and diapason swell. But sounds so wildly sweet as they, Ah, who would ever wish away?
Yet there are seasons when the soul,
Though with the passionate sense, so shrined
A charm to make its sadness less, "Twould hate the balm that healed its smart,
And curse the spell of loveliness That pierced its cloud of gloom, if so It stirred the stream of thought below.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
YES! Pride of soul shall nerve me now,
To think of thee no more;
And coldness steel the heart and brow
That passion swayed before!
Think'st thou that I will share thy breast, Whilst dwells a fondlier cherished guest
Deep in its inmost core?
No;-by my hopes of Heaven! I'll be
ALL-ALL-or nothing unto thee !
Thy hand hath oft been clasped in mine,
Fondly, since first we met;
My lip hath e'en been pressed to thine-
Lightly avails it, now, to tell
Joys I would fain forget,
Since MEMORY's star can ill controul
But I'll reproach thee not;-Farewell!
That binds my soul to thee,
Than wait till Time each pulse shall lend A strength that will not let it bend
To Reason's stern decree :
Since Fate hath willed that we must part, "Twere better now to brave the smart.