With such a gloom as can outbar

All light, nor flees the eastern star.

On shone the hours, but not a prayer
In Santa Chiara's roof was heard;
The traveller craved entrance there,
To rest him from the noon-tide glare,
But no man to his call appeared ;
No hospitable board was spread,

Where the wayfarer might be cheered;

The

poor went from that gate unfed
Much marvelling what rites were sped,
That thus could make a silence, deep
As the calm shipless seas can keep,
When the storm hath done its worst,
And its wide-felt rage hath burst
O'er all who dared to hold their way
In the dread confines of its sway.
The evening shades came o'er the air,
But horrid stillness every where
Within around that ancient fane

Kept its unbroken reign.

That floor had many a wide red stain

;

Those tombs bore ghastlier shapes of death

Than all they hid in heaps beneath.

The feet that have so often trod

The burial-stones that flag that ground
Are o'er them still; but not a sound

Of footsteps there is heard around,

Nor voice of wonted prayer to God.
The ravens are wheeling before the gate,
The kite and the crow with screams await,
As they snuffed the tainted air

Which bade them to a banquet there.
The wolves came down at even-tide,
And their hungry howl rang far and wide;
While they scented the corses aloof, in fear
To venture toward that banquet drear :
But in they came at midnight black,

For no one watched to scare them back;

And before the break of day

They went sated all away.

Dark were her silky tresses, seeming
Yet darker, down that fair neck streaming,
Or braided o'er that delicate brow
Whose whiteness had a living glow,
Like sunrise on the drifted snow ;-

And fairer seemed those lids, o'er eyes
More sapphirine than summer skies;
Wherein the awakening joy of life,

The morning-freshness of a heart Which never knew one thought of strife, Serenely beamed, and would impart

Its beauty to the gazer's mind,
Leaving a tinge of heaven behind,
A brightening of the mirror where
Had imaged been a form so fair.
Still they whose eyes had met her glance,
So gently thrilling in its power,
Would inly bless the happy chance,

And long for such a joy once more. The old would sigh, remembering love And youth, where she was seen to move: And the soft accents of that tongue

Dwelt in the bosoms of the

young,

With unforgotten charm, to be
An after-wealth to memory,
A hoarded music in the breast,
Whose deep-set echoes cannot rest.
That Grecian wonder-maker-he

Whose strangely beautifying hand

Made Venus worshipped in his land
With fulness of idolatry,—

Ne'er moulded a snowy shape of heaven
To symmetry more sweetly grand,

A grace more heightened, than was seen
In that brightest creature's mien,
That matchless form-the fitting shrine
Of a spirit all divine.

Seemed that to her alone were given

Charms such as met awaking Adam's view,

In the first hour of love, when Eden grew

Likest to Heaven, and Beauty's first-born stood Fresh from her Maker's hand, a marvel new! Dazzling his eagle sight with angel glance; Quickening his soul with all that could enhance The joys around, and give entire beatitude.

Such was thy mate, Arnaldo! she
Who gave her first-last love to thee,

Who now is vanished from thy path:
Thou art alone for ever.

This living world is void, and hath

No healing for thee: never, never, Shall rest be with thee more below.

The clinging plague that inly sways, The night that follows all such days, As were of late thy life, is deep Upon thee now, and hath no sleep; For still in all thy dreams doth woe Her murky vigils keep.

Yet one fell purpose, one alone,

With a requickening fire doth give
To thee the hardihood to live,

And makes thee well nigh seem as one
Who hath some hope to lead him on.

*

O Time the Scather! Time the Slayer! Time the Dethroner of all might! Twin-vanquisher with Death! Betrayer Of every hope, desire, delight

That owns the shadow of thy night!

How thy ever-growing sway

Deepens the depths of all decay,
Whose very ashes, day by day,
Thou wearest to frailer dust away!

All beauty feels thy earliest blight : "Tis thine to blot the bloomy red