Ending ther S FILL OF LINE.

Mark the fasting our afal.

Brighter than the best star

That guides the journeyers of the deer

O welcome, long-expected friends!

Haste, haste ye!-Soon once more I'll weep,

In the free air this glad hour ends

:

My most forlorn captivity,

And I shall be a sighless creature,

Most young and fair in soul and feature,

As whilom it was mine to be

A chantress on that joyous sea.

Yes, some kind spirit has come down,
And called the lingerers to my aid,

And grieved to see a wretched maid
With more than mortal grief o'erthrown.
Mark how they hither speed!-'tis he!
"Tis Leonardo's self I see;

Though distant yet, that form I know,
And do not err :—— -it must be so;

As heretofore, I feel the day

Brightening before his welcome

way:

If he were dead, as once they said,
I could not thus be phantom-led,

For spirits shun the ray.

How could I deem thee false, dear youth,
Thou that wast ever true as truth?

How deem thy love was less than mine?
Ah, hadst thou, thus, been doomed to pine,

One day, within a den like this,

I would have braved all deaths to share

The wrongs that Love must ever dare: But now we'll only speak of bliss, Less winged bliss, less fleeting cheer, Than seemed to smile for us whilere.

Now their small bark is nearing fast;
My beckoning hand they see.
Come ye for me, dear friends, at last?
Come ye, sweet friends, for me?

Alas, though near, they cannot hear
The voice that has grown faint with fear;
They cannot see my heaving breast
Against this narrow window prest.
O thou too-languid summer breeze,
Lend wings to words so weak as these!
Now they are gliding close below:
Ah pitiless! and will ye go?

Why bend on me that hopeless gaze

That seems to mourn my lot, yet says

That here I still must lose my days?

Come ye for me, dear friends?

-Alas!

All silently away they pass,

Like thousands more to whom I've prayed,

Through many a year, in vain, for aid.
Of all that breathe none will there be,
From this hour forth, to come for me.

'Twas fancy's mocking sorceries

That conjured up that image dear.

Thank heaven, at least he was not there!

Oh, 'twere a pang beyond all these

Had I beheld him thus pass on!

Perchance they've bound thee, dearest one,

Where wordy rage and worst despair

Dwell ramparted impregnably;

Where the fettered mad, from their haunted lair,

Send up a scaring laugh on high,

More dread than thunder; and the cry Follows the lash; and songs are heard

Sad as a funeral wail.

I too can laugh, but not in glee:

For there be imps within this cell,

And, though unseen, I hear them now,

Muttering what I dare not tell;

And poison-dews are on my brow.

Perchance, from some far desert shore
Thy answering sighs to heaven arise,
And win bright tears from angel-eyes.

Where'er thou art-howe'er I deem

Of thee, in many a wildered dreamI'll think thee faithful evermore,

Heavens! how I had forgotten all!
What horrors can a thought recall!
Have I not seen my lover's grave,
In Venice, and yet live-to rave,
To rave of joy on earth? But I
Shall also gain the bliss to die,
And follow whither he hath fled,

To Love's own world, wherein the dead
Flowers of this clime shall bloom, once more,
All-newly and for ever. There

The true shall fear no wan despair,
No arrowy thoughts to pierce the core
Of gentle hearts: but, on that shore,

All sainted lovers, from all lands,
Shall meet, in most rejoicing bands,

And by the floods of Paradise,

And the ever-taintless springs, Through fadeless bowers where the sighs

Of joy alone can e'er arise,

We'll wander, while the beamy wings.