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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,
Rapt in some dear delicious dream, Heedless what skies may o'er it roll,
What rays of beauty round it beam, Shuts up its inmost cell ;lest aught
However wondrous, wild, or fair, Shine in--and interrupt the thought,
The one deep thought that centres there!
Though with the passionate sense, so shrined
And canonized, the hues of grief Perchance be darkly, closely twined,
The lonely bosom spurns relief! And could the breathing scene impart
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 !
Deep in its inmost core?
or nothing unto thee !
Thy hand hath oft been clasped in mine
Fondly,--since first we met ;
In greeting wild ;-but yet,
Joys I would fain forget,
But I'll reproach thee not ;-Farewell !
Whilst yet I'm somewhat free, 'Twere better far to break the spell
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.