LADY JANE GREY.

———

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

———

“So early wise?”Lady fair! why linger’st thou?Hearest not? they call thee now:⁠—Thy father’s park is filled to-dayWith noble lords and ladies gay⁠—A princely band, with horn and spear,Are out to hunt the fallow deer;Put on thy graceful green arrayAnd hie thee to the chase away,Lord Guilford Dudley waits below,Lady, close the book and go!What! bending still above the page?Dothitthy woman-thoughts engage?Is it ancient Plato’s classic loreThine eager eye is poring o’er?Well may old Roger Ascham smileTo see thee sit amid that pileOf musty tomes, and gravely askWhich study next must be thy task.Methinks he pierced futurityWhen he bade thee scorn earth’s vanity!Lady fair! go forth to-night⁠—The royal halls are glittering bright,Quick—don this gorgeous robe of state⁠—Northumberland will on thee wait.Wreathe the crown jewels on thy brow,And gem with these thy neck of snow:Now fasten down this diamond zone⁠—So—there thou’rt ready, trembling one!The festival is made for thee⁠—Come—join the queenly pageantry!Oh, loveliest lady! turn not pale⁠—Why should thy lofty courage fail?See England’s proudest chivalrieWait at thy feet to bend the knee⁠—To raise thee to the Tudor’s throneTheir duty, and their hearts thine own!Even haughty Mary boweth lowAnd offereth thee her loyal vow⁠—Noble and prince thy claim have owned⁠—Lo! there thou standest crowned and throned.The Tower!—a cell in yon gray towerIs the price of Edward’s fatal dower!A bloody doom is on thee cast⁠—The sentence for thy death hath passed!Yea, death for one so young and fair⁠—Yet wearest thou no look of care:Still on thy book thine eye is bent,Bespeaking wisdom and content⁠—Wo! that on cold Ambition’s shrineIs sacrificed a mind like thine.Come, lady, come! the muffled bellIs tolling now thy husband’s knell!Another hour, and there will beNo earthly care for him or thee!Go—all undimmed in thy beauty go⁠—With holy truth upon thy brow:A lot of glittering wretchednessIs well exchanged for Heaven’s own bliss;Thou’st won the martyr’s crown and wreath⁠—Joy to thee, peerless bride of Death!

“So early wise?”

Lady fair! why linger’st thou?Hearest not? they call thee now:⁠—Thy father’s park is filled to-dayWith noble lords and ladies gay⁠—A princely band, with horn and spear,Are out to hunt the fallow deer;Put on thy graceful green arrayAnd hie thee to the chase away,Lord Guilford Dudley waits below,Lady, close the book and go!

Lady fair! why linger’st thou?

Hearest not? they call thee now:⁠—

Thy father’s park is filled to-day

With noble lords and ladies gay⁠—

A princely band, with horn and spear,

Are out to hunt the fallow deer;

Put on thy graceful green array

And hie thee to the chase away,

Lord Guilford Dudley waits below,

Lady, close the book and go!

What! bending still above the page?Dothitthy woman-thoughts engage?Is it ancient Plato’s classic loreThine eager eye is poring o’er?Well may old Roger Ascham smileTo see thee sit amid that pileOf musty tomes, and gravely askWhich study next must be thy task.Methinks he pierced futurityWhen he bade thee scorn earth’s vanity!

What! bending still above the page?

Dothitthy woman-thoughts engage?

Is it ancient Plato’s classic lore

Thine eager eye is poring o’er?

Well may old Roger Ascham smile

To see thee sit amid that pile

Of musty tomes, and gravely ask

Which study next must be thy task.

Methinks he pierced futurity

When he bade thee scorn earth’s vanity!

Lady fair! go forth to-night⁠—The royal halls are glittering bright,Quick—don this gorgeous robe of state⁠—Northumberland will on thee wait.Wreathe the crown jewels on thy brow,And gem with these thy neck of snow:Now fasten down this diamond zone⁠—So—there thou’rt ready, trembling one!The festival is made for thee⁠—Come—join the queenly pageantry!

Lady fair! go forth to-night⁠—

The royal halls are glittering bright,

Quick—don this gorgeous robe of state⁠—

Northumberland will on thee wait.

Wreathe the crown jewels on thy brow,

And gem with these thy neck of snow:

Now fasten down this diamond zone⁠—

So—there thou’rt ready, trembling one!

The festival is made for thee⁠—

Come—join the queenly pageantry!

Oh, loveliest lady! turn not pale⁠—Why should thy lofty courage fail?See England’s proudest chivalrieWait at thy feet to bend the knee⁠—To raise thee to the Tudor’s throneTheir duty, and their hearts thine own!Even haughty Mary boweth lowAnd offereth thee her loyal vow⁠—Noble and prince thy claim have owned⁠—Lo! there thou standest crowned and throned.

Oh, loveliest lady! turn not pale⁠—

Why should thy lofty courage fail?

See England’s proudest chivalrie

Wait at thy feet to bend the knee⁠—

To raise thee to the Tudor’s throne

Their duty, and their hearts thine own!

Even haughty Mary boweth low

And offereth thee her loyal vow⁠—

Noble and prince thy claim have owned⁠—

Lo! there thou standest crowned and throned.

The Tower!—a cell in yon gray towerIs the price of Edward’s fatal dower!A bloody doom is on thee cast⁠—The sentence for thy death hath passed!Yea, death for one so young and fair⁠—Yet wearest thou no look of care:Still on thy book thine eye is bent,Bespeaking wisdom and content⁠—Wo! that on cold Ambition’s shrineIs sacrificed a mind like thine.

The Tower!—a cell in yon gray tower

Is the price of Edward’s fatal dower!

A bloody doom is on thee cast⁠—

The sentence for thy death hath passed!

Yea, death for one so young and fair⁠—

Yet wearest thou no look of care:

Still on thy book thine eye is bent,

Bespeaking wisdom and content⁠—

Wo! that on cold Ambition’s shrine

Is sacrificed a mind like thine.

Come, lady, come! the muffled bellIs tolling now thy husband’s knell!Another hour, and there will beNo earthly care for him or thee!Go—all undimmed in thy beauty go⁠—With holy truth upon thy brow:A lot of glittering wretchednessIs well exchanged for Heaven’s own bliss;Thou’st won the martyr’s crown and wreath⁠—Joy to thee, peerless bride of Death!

Come, lady, come! the muffled bell

Is tolling now thy husband’s knell!

Another hour, and there will be

No earthly care for him or thee!

Go—all undimmed in thy beauty go⁠—

With holy truth upon thy brow:

A lot of glittering wretchedness

Is well exchanged for Heaven’s own bliss;

Thou’st won the martyr’s crown and wreath⁠—

Joy to thee, peerless bride of Death!

THE YOUNG PAINTER.

A TALE.

———

BY MRS. JANE L. SWIFT.

———

Among the vast number of individuals continually visiting the regions of the old world, how few are prepared by an enlightened education and a cultivated taste, to appreciate its strong claims upon the admiration of the traveler. A love of the beautiful in nature, and a veneration for the ancient in art, may combine to give a glowing interest to each step that is taken upon the soil of older climes; but to minds that feel how much we owe to the early annals of those climes—how the accumulated treasures of historic lore have pointed out the quicksands of legislation—how experience has sounded its alarm from the rocks upon which nation after nation has struck and gone down; to minds that feel how time has traced upon the chart of the world’s destiny a warning record for those that come after—the government and institutions, the splendor and the decay, the rise and the downfall of the countries over which they wander, cannot fail to awaken the deepest interest, and to imbue with the holiness of truth the associations that must continually arise. It is one thing to have read the history of a country—to have a knowledge of its successive kings, emperors, or rulers; to know the results of its convulsions and its battles; to be able to date the events that have crowned with glory or branded with ignominy its name—and it is another thing to have digested the information thus obtained; to have acquired a succinct view of the bearing of social and political institutions upon the genius of the people existing under them; and to have become acquainted with the predominant influences which conducted that country to its ascent, or hastened it to its decline. A noble structure is left for us to gaze upon; a relic of by-gone ages, full of rents and fissures, and bearing upon its time-worn towers the ivy of decay. It speaks to us of the course of empire, of the march of intellect, of the sway of mind, of the abuse of power, of the horrors of war, of the extinction of nations. It stands as a beacon to enlighten the world’s rulers; to teach them that what has been shall be; and to display its warning torch for the Future in the history of the Past.

History is to the mental what Revelation is to the spiritual vision. The former clears away the darkness which rests upon our perceptions with regard to the well-being and destiny of nations; the latter dispels the cloud which hangs over the unevangelized world with regard to the well-being and destiny of man. It does not require a moment’s thought to be convinced, that he who visits classic ground with a mind conversant with and delighting in the glowing pages of ancient lore, will experience an enjoyment tenfold to that of him who finds all things new, and who, content with the attraction of novelty, neither knows nor cares to know of the mighty deeds that have cursed or consecrated its soil. True, there are sunny landscapes smiling for him, and works of art beautiful in their decay around him; but they cannot be to him as familiar things, for he had perchance never heard of their existence until he gazed upon them. The charm of association can beautify and hallow the most barren spot. What may it not do, then, when its golden hue is cast upon the monuments of former greatness—monuments crumbling to their fall, but speaking of a people, and of a grandeur, which centuries ago had passed away.

Thoughts like these were floating through the mind of a young traveler, as he gazed out of the window of the post chaise that was rapidly approaching the place of his destination. He was the eldest son of a wealthy English commoner, who, having traced in the early years of his child the bright promise of a noble intellect, had assiduously applied himself to its cultivation and improvement. A man of no inconsiderable literary attainment himself he could fully appreciate the advantages of a highly finished education, and as the mind of his son daily developed its natural endowments, it became his delight and pride to direct that young mind in its pursuit of knowledge. As Arthur Melburn advanced toward manhood, the energies of his nature seemed concentrated upon the all-absorbing love of study; and in the classic writers of Greece and Rome, he found a never failing source of interest and of pleasure. A sojourn in those regions of former splendor had been from boyhood the brightest day-dream of his young spirit; and often had that spirit taken its airy flight among the scenes described by the matchless pens of Grecian and Roman historians. In the noble, heart-stirring legends of ancient Rome, he learned to feel a veneration for the clime and for the people which had been marked out for such exalted destinies; while in the shade of the academic grove he bent with profound admiration before the master-minds of philosophers and sages. Upon his return from the University of Cambridge, at the age of three-and-twenty,he set out upon his long anticipated tour, well prepared to enjoy and to appreciate the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art, and the mighty in mind.

Unlike the generality of earth’s gifted ones, Arthur Melburn possessed a well balanced, well regulated judgment, with a discretion beyond his years. Yet, as every character must have its own tinge of imperfection, he possessed that chilling reserve of disposition which characterizes his nation, and was too prone to seek his enjoyment in himself, without due regard to the claims of those around him. This feeling, so apt to degenerate into confirmed selfishness, had frequently been the subject of earnest expostulation between the father and son; but not until Arthur Melburn had visited the gaysalonsof Paris, and the still gayer coteries of Vienna, was he aware how unpopular and repulsive such anabordmust be. The conviction thus forced upon him, soon wrought a change in the young Englishman’s address; and although the “so far shalt thou come and no further” of old England still clung to him, yet he was in every respect the accomplished scholar, the courteous and polished man.

It was a bright and lovely day in October, such an one as gives elasticity to the frame, and tinges the cheek with a ruddier glow. The sun was declining in the heavens, and streaks of golden light fell upon the landscape, which met the traveler’s eye as he reached the heights near Boccano, and looked for the first time upon the domes and towers of Rome. It is not easy to describe the varied associations that poured their tide of hallowed memories into his mind. He was not an enthusiast. He was one who felt deeply, although he felt calmly; yet an attentive observer might have marked a faint flush pass over his brow, while the veins of his temples swelled, and his eye dilated as he gazed.

A young Italian had been his companion on the route from Florence, and our traveler had become singularly interested in his new acquaintance. He was a native of Rome, possessing all the fire and passionate ardor of that clime, combined with a melancholy that seemed ill-suited to his years. He was slight, and of small stature, but with a countenance of intellectual beauty that could not be surpassed. The rich, glossy curls fell upon a brow as white as ivory; and the dark eye gleamed from beneath that brow as if it would pierce into your soul. But his cheek was very, very pale, and the chiselled lips had lost their ruby hue. He was evidently in declining health, and Arthur Melburn felt his heart warm toward the unknown but interesting companion of his journey.

“The air is chilly, too chilly I fear for you,” said Melburn kindly; “let me draw up the window, or else change seats with me.”

“Thank you,” replied the young Italian, “the air does me good—it strengthens me; and see,” he added, “we are nearly at our journey’s end.”

“I trust,” returned Melburn with a smile, “that the acquaintance so agreeably commenced between us may not be discontinued upon our arrival in Rome. I anticipate making a stay of many weeks there, and it will give me unfeigned satisfaction to renew our intercourse.”

A crimson flush passed over the pallid cheek of the Italian as he warmly grasped Melburn’s hand and said, “Yes, yes, I have felt my spirit yearn toward you with an unaccountable sympathy. I have loved but few, and fewer still have cared for me.Yours is a brighter and a happier destiny than mine. What have you to gain by knowing me? Yet I would gladly look upon you as a friend—indeed, indeed I would.”

Melburn cordially pressed the feverish hand within his own; and giving his address to the Italian, asked for his in return.

“My name is Giovanni Rosa, and⁠—”

The Englishman uttered an exclamation of surprise, and said, “You are not, then, entirely unknown to me. I have heard of you as the most promising of the young painters of Italy.”

“Ah!” sighed the Italian, “to win immortality for the name of Giovanni Rosa would reconcile me to life, barren and blasted as it is.”

“You are too young to speak thus despondingly of life, Signor Rosa; believe me, all have their peculiar trials, and with an honorable career before you, these trials should be met and overcome. We will talk of this hereafter.”

The carriage stopped; Melburn alighted at the door of his hotel, and, after arranging an interview for the morrow, the two newly made friends separated.

It was a great disappointment to our young traveler to find, upon his arrival at Rome, that his uncle’s family, which he had expected to meet there, had left but a week or two before. He was to have joined their party; but, owing to the miscarriage of his letters, they had proceeded on their journey, leaving information for him that they should soon retrace their steps, and probably pass the winter in Rome. After some deliberation, Melburn concluded that it was as well for him to remain and wait their return, although his heart beat more quickly as he thought of his long anticipated meeting with his beautiful cousin, Alice Templeton, whom he had not seen for more than a year. He had cherished a preference for her from early boyhood; but as they had met rarely, and then at long intervals, that preference had not yet acquired the strength of love. Yet there were pure, sweet memories connected with her; for in childhood he had often smoothed her golden curls as her little head lay upon his bosom, and in later years he had seen the mantling blush overspread her countenance, as he pressed the kiss of meeting or of parting upon her brow. But he was in Rome—this reconciled him to the delay; and as his mind wandered back again to its treasured lore, he felt that he trod the courts of a temple consecrated to dead empires,and that the very dust beneath his feet was hallowed.

Accompanied by the enthusiastic Italian, with what exquisite satisfaction did he visit the ruined monuments of the ancient mistress of the world, the queen of nations! How time flew by, as from spot to spot he traced the steps of desolation and decay; and when memory reverted to the three hundred triumphs that had been celebrated within the walls of the seven-hilled city, he felt how hollow and frail a thing was the pageantry of earth. The empty sepulchres, the ruined temples, the mouldering arches, the tottering piles—these were but the scattered fragments of Rome’s glory; the broken and tarnished jewels of her matchless crown.

It was on a mild, beautiful afternoon, about a month after his arrival, that Arthur Melburn sat alone in the studio of the young painter. They had made an engagement to visit the Coliseum together by moonlight; and Melburn, not finding him at home, concluded to wait for his return. As he looked upon the pictures which the glowing pencil of Rosa had traced upon the canvas, he saw how each bore the stamp of the wild beauty that characterized the mind of the painter. In his designs there was a dreamy mystery and gloom that seemed to cast a shadow upon the sunny tints; and made you feel as if storm and calm, hope and despair, were struggling for the mastery. One picture, a mere sketch, soon attracted the attention of Melburn. There was a wild torrent rushing over dark and pointed rocks. Upon one side of the stream was a towering oak whose leaves were still green and luxuriant, although it had been riven to its very centre by the thunderbolt; while its scorched and blackened trunk stood in strong contrast with the fresh verdure that surrounded it. Upon the stream, where all was calm, there floated a little bark, moored safely in its glassy haven, with a female figure reclining listlessly at its prow; while, driving on among the rocks and whirlpools, and hurrying to destruction, was another boat, in which knelt the figure of a man. His face was turned toward the serene and quiet haven, but he was not aware of the perils that surrounded him; for his gaze was riveted upon that vision of beauty, and the oar, fallen from his hand, had already been carried over the edge of the fearful torrent. Melburn was so intent contemplating the powerful effect produced by the lights and shades of the painter’s pencil, that he did not notice his entrance until he stood with folded arms beside him.

“It is thus with life, is it not, Melburn?” murmured the soft, low tones of Giovanni. “A few sunny hours upon the glassy bosom of its stream, and then the threatening waves and foaming surges bear us wildly on. In the distance is some bright vision—the Egeria of our hearts—embodying all that youth, and hope, and love can sigh for. Alas! the unattained; how it woos and mocks, but to woo and mock again. We are but the sport of destiny; and as that destiny grows dim and dark, fate looks on with a smile, and we are hurried into the still waters of oblivion.”

Melburn turned his calm eye upon the excited countenance of the speaker. “Giovanni, life is indeed a troubled stream, and man is launched in a frail bark upon its waves; but the means to stem those waves, and to guide that bark, are given him, and if those means be cast aside, why call it destiny that hurries him to destruction? Your matchless picture has called up stern and solemn thoughts. Look at it, Giovanni; the oars are fallen overboard, the rudder is useless at the helm, the compass vibrates, but meets not the eye it was given to guide. Is the recklessness that suffers the vessel with its priceless freight to near the torrent’s brink—is that recklessness destiny?”

“Are we not what we are, Melburn, by an inevitable necessity? Can I change the course of events, which in themselves are fixed and unalterable? As soon may you gather up the burning fluid of the thunderbolt in your hand, as arrest or turn aside the decrees of fate.”

“Look, Giovanni; since you have entered, the heavens are darkened by an approaching tempest. Yonder spire out-tops the surrounding buildings, and presents a mark for the lightning’s unerring aim. But see! upon its point there is an iron rod, and that rod can preserve the magnificent structure from desolation. Would it be well to leave it unprotected, and call it destiny that would at some future day make it a heap of smouldering ruins?”

“No,” replied the Italian despondingly; “but man, man is ever fulfillinghisunalterable destiny.”

“You are only a superficial disciple of the fatalists,” answered Melburn, smiling; “for you have failed to cultivate the equanimity and indifference to fate which they teach. Believe me, dear Giovanni, man is not a puppet in the hands of fate. He is a rational, accountable being, destined for immortality; dependent, I admit, upon a wise over-ruling Providence for the allotment of good or evil in this life; but he may of his own free will abuse the good to his destruction, or make the evil profitable to his improvement. As the warm breeze of the south enervates the frame it blows upon, so would a life without trial rob manhood of the discipline that braces and nerves the soul to godlike strength. As each difficulty or disappointment comes upon us, we should strive to hear the voice that spoke to Constantine in his memorable vision, ‘In this, overcome.’ ”

The Italian grasped the hand of Melburn; “Speak on,” he murmured, “for your words fall in gentle tones upon my heart, and the slumbering memories of other years, when a mother’s voice lulled me to repose, are crowding upon my soul. Speak on, for holier thoughts come at your bidding—thoughts of a being who was not always shrouded in blackness and tempest—thoughts long buried in the ashes of a consuming ambition and a hopeless love. Yetthere are moments, Melburn, when a ‘still small voice’ is heard above the storm of earthly passions, and the weary spirit yearns to catch the blessed accents as they fall; but the blast sweeps on, and the voice is drowned in the contending din.”

“It is your misfortune, Giovanni, to possess the keen sensibilities, and the finely strung nerves of genius. You worship the beautiful, and you feel the slightest discord in the harmony of your emotions with an intensity unknown to mankind in general. You perceive quickly, you appreciate vividly, you love passionately. But the pearls of existence are strung upon a slender thread, and the anxious grasp that would secure, too often scatters them in the dust. You are a child of impulse, and the same fire that kindles the flame of ambition within your soul, is searing your spirit with its fervid glow. If the dew of heaven water the parched flower, it will bloom again; and the dew of a better, purer hope will revive the blossom of happiness in your heart, Giovanni.”

“Never! never! the wilted flower may revive, but when the worm has been busy at the root, what then?”

“The broken spirit may lean upon Omnipotence, Giovanni. He who holds in his hands the destinies of worlds, and whose infinite mind originated the eternal mysteries of the universe, he supports the sparrow on the wing, and it falls not to the ground without his knowledge. Shall man, the most glorious of his works, the image of himself, the denizen of immortality, shall man pine under the weight of his earthly fetters, and find no ark of refuge? Forbid it, Heaven!”

A silence of some minutes ensued, and a burning drop fell upon Melburn’s hand, which was clasped in that of the Italian.

The rain, which had been falling in torrents, ceased, the clouds cleared away, and the last rays of the setting sun streamed in bright effulgence as it sank to its repose. Slowly faded the gorgeous tints that had robed the sky in glory, and as the drapery of heaven darkened in its hue, here and there a faint star peeped out, and then the full-orbed moon shed her pure and mystic light upon the scene. At this moment, beneath the window where they sat, appeared a young Italian girl, who, after gazing for an instant upon the face of Giovanni, struck with a master-touch the guitar which she held, and poured forth, in a voice of exquisite melody, the following wild strain:⁠—

Weep, weep for the cheek that has paled ’neath the kissGiven by thee;Weep, weep for the past, with its moments of bliss,Once shared by me.Weep, weep for the sinless, who cast her heart’s pearlOn love’s purest shrine;Thine, thine was the altar upon which it lay⁠—The offering was mine.Smile, smile for the transplanted flower that blooms⁠—It blooms not for thee;There’s death in the poisonous incense it breathes⁠—To thee and to me.Weep, weep that the shroud, with its lily-white hue,Must ere long be mine;Aye, weep for the destiny, blighting and drear,That made my heart thine.

Weep, weep for the cheek that has paled ’neath the kissGiven by thee;Weep, weep for the past, with its moments of bliss,Once shared by me.

Weep, weep for the cheek that has paled ’neath the kiss

Given by thee;

Weep, weep for the past, with its moments of bliss,

Once shared by me.

Weep, weep for the sinless, who cast her heart’s pearlOn love’s purest shrine;Thine, thine was the altar upon which it lay⁠—The offering was mine.

Weep, weep for the sinless, who cast her heart’s pearl

On love’s purest shrine;

Thine, thine was the altar upon which it lay⁠—

The offering was mine.

Smile, smile for the transplanted flower that blooms⁠—It blooms not for thee;There’s death in the poisonous incense it breathes⁠—To thee and to me.

Smile, smile for the transplanted flower that blooms⁠—

It blooms not for thee;

There’s death in the poisonous incense it breathes⁠—

To thee and to me.

Weep, weep that the shroud, with its lily-white hue,Must ere long be mine;Aye, weep for the destiny, blighting and drear,That made my heart thine.

Weep, weep that the shroud, with its lily-white hue,

Must ere long be mine;

Aye, weep for the destiny, blighting and drear,

That made my heart thine.

The next moment she had disappeared, and Melburn turned to look at Giovanni. His head was bowed upon his hand, and he breathed quickly, as if overpowered by suppressed emotion. There was a long and heavy pause. “Melburn,” said he at last, “have you ever loved?”

A stern, cold expression passed over the countenance of the young Englishman, which did not escape the quick eye of Rosa, and he resumed; “A portion of the veil has been lifted which hides from you the secret of my unhappiness. Despise me not, Melburn, when I tell you that I have ceased to loveher. Why, why was I born to bring blight upon others as well as upon myself? Left an orphan at an early age, penniless and friendless, I have struggled thus far through life, just earning the bread that supports me. Burning with an ambition to excel in the godlike art I worship, I have drained but one or two scanty drops of fame for years of intense study. I have seen influence and patronage draw out of obscurity talent less deserving than mine, while I have been left to grovel in the dust of neglect and poverty. With bitterness of spirit I have tasted the injustice of the world, and its bought smiles have withered almost to the root the hopes that I dared to cherish. In the midst of my loneliness and sorrow there beamed a vision of comfort upon my soul; and the impassioned being, whose song just met your ear, wreathed a charm around my heart which I mistook for love. You of a colder clime know not the fearful fire that gives intensity to every emotion, and makes the life-blood rush with the impetuosity of a torrent. Conventional prejudices would make you judge harshly of the love that overpowers reason, propriety, and prudence; but Bianca was a child of nature, and in loving me, she cast all her heart’s treasure into my arms. We were both poor—we could not marry; but she was to have been my wife. Fate threw in my way another from your own cold clime. Ah, the beautiful! how I worshiped it in her. We met at the Vatican, where she was copying a sketch by Rubens. A celebrated painter introduced me to her. She visited my pictures, and the meed of approval that fell from her lips sank into my soul. She was gentle, with all the winning gentleness of woman; but the chaste snow was not more cold. I gazed upon her beauty as we gaze upon a pure and distant star; and as each speaking lineament told of elevated desires, and proud aspirations, I bent in adoration at her shrine, and laid my offering there. We had met frequently; and although I feared that my love was hopeless, still I could not tear myself from the fascination of her presence. She saw, with a woman’s quick perception, that Iloved her deeply; and she strove to destroy by coldness the illusion that might be fatal to my peace. I could not bear it; it was better to know the worst. We were left alone one evening, and with trembling lips and incoherent words, I strove to tell her of my love. She did not suffer me to proceed, but kindly took my hand in hers and said, ‘Signor Rosa, from childhood my heart has been another’s.’ Darkness came over me, and the sable pall will never be drawn aside.”

He paused for a moment, and then continued; “I would not, could not see Bianca. The romance of life was at an end. I shut myself up among the creations of my pencil, but they failed to awaken my spirit from its lethargy; and I find the energies of my soul withering daily, and my frame consuming with the fire that will not be quenched.”

Tears glistened in the eyes of the sensitive Italian, and he hurried on. “I love you, Melburn; you would save me from myself, and you have made me feel that there is disinterested kindness in humanity. There have been times, my friend, when a whispering demon seemed urging me to rid myself of the load that oppressed me—‘it is but a drop of opiate—it is but the keen point of the dark blue steel—it is but the flash of a moment, and all will be over.’ Then there came thoughts of the dread loneliness and degradation of the grave—perhaps the judgment! and⁠—”

“Giovanni,” said Melburn solemnly, interrupting him, “brave not the Most High. Life is a precious deposit, and it is not for man to interfere with the will of Omnipotence. Suicide is the crime of a coward, perpetrated in moral darkness; it is a crime which leaves not a moment for repentance or for pardon, but ushers the blood-stained soul unshriven into the presence of its God.”

A shudder passed over the frame of the Italian as he drew from his bosom a small poignard of exquisite workmanship; “Take it—take it, Melburn,” he exclaimed, “you have saved me.”

A lingering pressure of the hand was Melburn’s only answer.

It was now too late for them to think of visiting the Coliseum—besides, their minds were not in a state to do so; and after making an appointment for the morrow, they separated.

When Melburn reached his room at the hotel, he was delighted to find letters from his relatives, who had just arrived in Naples from Sicily, announcing their intention of remaining there for some weeks, and begging him to join their party immediately. Nothing could have happened more opportunely; for, for some days past, he had been thinking seriously of setting out to overtake them wherever they might be. And then the image of Alice—how often did it mingle in his dreams, and haunt his waking hours.

The next day he spent with Giovanni Rosa in wandering among the ruins of Rome; and it was with sincere regret that the enthusiastic Italian heard of the contemplated journey to Naples. “You will forget me, Melburn,” he said sorrowfully; “the remembrance of me will be but as a passing shadow, while you will live within my heart. But you will return, will you not?”

“Yes, Giovanni—perhaps soon. At all events, I shall spend some time again in Rome before I bid adieu to beautiful Italy forever.”

“I hope so,” exclaimed Rosa, as he grasped Melburn’s hand at parting; “I will remember your counsel—I will strive ‘in this to overcome.’ ”

“Ay, Rosa, for my sake, and for your future fame, struggle on, it will not be in vain.”

The Italian gazed at the receding form of the young Englishman until it disappeared; and then hurrying home, he rushed to his room and burst into tears.

It was on the evening of the second day after his departure from Rome that Arthur Melburn arrived in Naples. Travel-worn and covered with dust as he was, he sought instantly thesalonwhere he expected to meet his relatives. No one was there but Alice; and as she rose hastily to meet him, he could scarcely believe that the beautiful being before him was the gay, romping cousin of earlier days. What the countenance had lost of ruddiness and glow, it had gained in the intellectual, I may almost say the spiritual expression that now characterized it. Eloquent thought had stamped a serene loveliness upon her brow, and feeling had robbed the cheek of its roses to impart a softer lustre to her eye. Arthur clasped her hands in his, gazed at her, hesitated, and then raised one fair hand to his lips. “Dear Alice,” he said, and as those tones fell upon her ear, a crimson blush passed over her face, and then left it paler than before. And what were the feelings of Melburn? Ah, at such moments how memories throng upon the overpowered heart, concentrating in one glowing point the beautiful rays that have illumined life, and fastening as with a diamond rivet the slender links of love’s frail chain. Frail? Ay, frail; unless the hallowed influences of years have given to it enduring strength, and then it must be a power almost super-human that can sever it.

How much there was to hear, how much to tell; and as each member of the family welcomed the new comer, how pleasant it was to feel almost at home again, though in a land of strangers. In the society of Alice, whose mind was capable of appreciating his superior attainments, Melburn visited all the places worthy of notice in and around Naples; and each day, as it verged to its decline, added some memorial of happiness to be garnered in their hearts. Theirs was not a love blinded by passion, exaggerated in its impulses, and consuming to ashes while it burned; but it was the genial ray lent by Heaven to gladden with its pure light the darker pathways of this world. It was love such as an angel might have looked upon, without feeling that the spirit had been tinged by aught of earthly stain.

Week after week rolled on with a rapidity almost incredible, for time to the happy is winged with swifter pinions, and the winter had nearly passed away before they returned to Rome.

Melburn’s first visit was to the studio of the young painter. His cheek was paler, and his frame more attenuated, but the expression of his countenance was less wild and haggard. In the endearing epithets of his sweet language he welcomed the traveler, and gazed upon him with a melancholy tenderness.

“Ah, Melburn,” he said, after their first congratulations had been exchanged, “ah, Melburn, I began to fear that I should never look upon your face again. It would have grieved me to descend into the cold, dark grave without having once more heard the tones of sympathy and kindness. I have struggled to smother the contending passions within my breast; I have suffered; but I have been calm.”

“You apply yourself too closely to your art, Giovanni; why not abandon it for a time, and seek renovated health in change of air, and change of scene?”

“I shall carry the same heart with me, Melburn; it is too late. I feel that I am dying—the withering blight of years has struck home. But let us not dwell upon that now. It does me good to see you once more; and to feel that I have one friend in the wide world.”

“Yes, Giovanni,” answered the young Englishman, “the bond of friendship has become strong between us, although but a few months ago we met as strangers. I know not what mysterious sympathy attracted us to each other, but I felt from the moment I saw you, as if there was a connecting link in our destinies. An impulse which I cannot define induced me to offer you the seat in my traveling carriage, as I was leaving Florence; and when we reached Rome, I could not think of parting from you as a stranger. I see with pain that your health is failing; dear Rosa, let me persuade you to accompany me next month to England. Circumscribed means need be no obstacle, for I have wealth enough to spare; nay, interrupt me not—he is not my friend who would refuse to receive so small an obligation at my hands. The journey might restore your waning strength, and after a residence of a few months there, you might return to your country with a renovated frame and a happier mind. Since I left you, Giovanni, I have become affianced to one whom I have long loved; and she will unite with me, I am sure, in striving to make you happy.”

“I wish you joy, Melburn,” exclaimed the Italian with much feeling; “God grant that she may be worthy of you. But, my friend, I cannot accept your kind offer. I would die here—here in the beautiful land that gave me birth; surrounded by the objects I have worshiped, and on the spot where I first met her. Here must be my grave; and perhaps at some future day she may revisit this sunny clime, and remember the heart that beat and broke for her.”

Melburn saw that it was useless to contend for the present against the morbid melancholy which seemed to have settled upon the spirit of the painter, and he began to converse upon lighter themes. All proved powerless to win him from his gloomy abstraction; at length rousing himself as if from a dreamy reverie, he said, “Happiness is attained by some; you are happy, Melburn.”

“Yes, Giovanni, I am happy; but I do not look for an unchequered path in this world. I know that cares, anxieties, and afflictions fall sooner or later to the lot of all; and I would be prepared to lose the blessings I enjoy by not loving them too well. A just balance in which to weigh the objects of fluctuating desire is necessary to our forming just views of their value; and will prevent our giving undue preponderance to those which are secondary or trivial in themselves. We are so apt to surround some wished for boon, while unattained, with vague anticipations of delight, which the possession too often fails to realize.”

“That is true, Melburn; but many a heart lives on hope that never enjoys fruition.”

Melburn smiled as he answered, “In gazing upon the forbidden garden that crowns some lofty hill inaccessible to us, we may forget the fruits and flowers that are lying in profusion at our feet, untasted, unappreciated. Is it not so, Giovanni?”

“I mean the hopes that stand out in bold relief wearing the hues of immortality; I mean the undying yearnings of the loving heart, the glorious aspirations of the godlike mind. Nothing short of fruition in these can satisfy a nature such as mine.”

“Then, Giovanni, your hope must cast its anchor in the ‘deep profound’ of another world—it must seek its fruition in the Eternal. You may as well search for coral in the bowels of the earth, or for gold in the bosom of the sea, as to seek a resting-place for the immortal spirit in the regions of mortality. I am not a religionist—I am not the bigoted follower of any creed; but in the exalted aspirations of our nature, I recognize the immaterial principle that will hereafter assimilate us to God. It instills a perception of the beautiful, a yearning for the good, an appreciation of the true, that cannot be realized in this imperfect state of existence. Looking abroad upon the stupendous universe, I see every thing fulfilling its destined end. Surely, these heaven-born aspirations will not be quenched in the forgetfulness of the grave, but, disencumbered of their material elements, will find their completeness and felicity in the source from which they sprung. Would to God, my friend, that you could feel as deeply as I do, how infinitely the interests of our future destiny transcend those of our present state of being.”

“I have reflected, Melburn, upon our frequent conversations, and I feel, that had my mind been trained as yours has been, I should not be the creature of wayward impulse that I am. My temperament is an unhappy one—a temperament that might induce insanity, should my life be spared.But that life is fast ebbing to its close, and I am content to die. I have prayed that God may be merciful.”

He paused, and threw back from his brow the rich, dark locks that had fallen over it; and assuming a tone of cheerfulness, he said, “Tell me of your bride, Melburn; you had not spoken to me of her.”

Melburn smiled as he answered, “She is not an angel, Giovanni, but I think that there are few who can be compared to my sweet Alice.”

“Alice! did you say?”

“Yes, Alice Templeton.”

A change, a fearful change came over the face of the Italian. The crimson blood rushed to his brow, while his eyes glared with the furious passion of a demon. Rage, hate, despair, were all concentrated in the wild glance which he threw upon Melburn, as he advanced toward him; then the blood retreated to his heart, and left his cheek as white as marble. His breath came short and heavy; and he stood rooted to the spot like a thing of stone.

“For God’s sake, Giovanni,” exclaimed Melburn, “what is the matter? You appal—you terrify me.”

The painter grasped his hand, and dragging him to an adjoining apartment, tore aside the snow-white veil that hung over a picture. Melburn looked upon the face of Alice—his Alice—the idolized love of the Italian. But it was Alice as an angel—for her beauty was so spiritualized, that the earthly seemed lost in the heavenly. Melburn hid his face in his hands for a moment; then stretching out his arms, the stricken child of destiny rushed into them, and sank insensible upon his bosom.

Hour after hour passed on, and still consciousness did not revive in that feeble frame. There was a glimmering of life, nothing more; and as Melburn watched beside his couch, tears, more burning than any he had ever shed, fell upon the inanimate form on which he gazed. “Poor Rosa,” he murmured, “thou hast indeed been the sport of adverse circumstances. This, then, is the link of the mysterious chain that bound me to thee; our hearts drank at the same fountain, and became united in the same stream. Peace, peace to thy parting spirit. God receive thy weary soul.”

The light of life never gleamed again. He lingered through another day. As the veil of night descended upon the world, the spirit of the unfortunate Italian took its flight to the shadowy far-off land.

It was midnight. Tapers were burning upon the coffin in which lay all that remained of Giovanni Rosa. Melburn, with two friends of the deceased, kept a sorrowful vigil beside the clay-cold form; and as the tedious hours crept on, the death-like silence became almost insupportable. At length a soft step was heard, and a female form in white glided noiselessly to the coffin’s side. She lifted the crape that shrouded the face beneath, and gazed fearlessly upon the lineaments so beautiful in their repose; then kissing the cold brow, she replaced the snowy covering, and silently departed as she came.

The next morning they heard that Bianca was dead. She had taken poison.

In theChiesa di Santa Maria is a costly monument of marble, erected over the remains of the young painter by his English friend. Before they returned to England, Melburn and his betrothed visited the spot together, fulfilling the wish of the departed, “that she might stand beside his grave, and remember the heart that beat and broke for her.”

SONNETS

ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM JOHN KEATS—BY LEIGH HUNT.

The sonnets below are on a blank leaf, in an edition of the early poems of John Keats “printed for C. & J. Ollier, 3 Welbeck street, London, 1817.” The book was presented to me by my friend, the late George Keats, (brother of the poet,) who resided for many years prior to his death in this city. They are in the handwriting of Hunt, and are not contained in any edition of his poems which I have seen. You can readily ascertain whether they have appeared in print—if they have not, I think they may be acceptable to many of your readers, and therefore send them.G. R. Graham, Esq.F. COSBY, Jr., Louisville, Ky.

G. R. Graham, Esq.

F. COSBY, Jr., Louisville, Ky.

I.A crown of ivy! I submit my headTo the young hand that gives it—young, ’tis true,But with a right, for ’tis a poet’s too.How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spreadWith their broad angles, like a nodding shedOver both eyes! and how complete and new,As on my hand I lean, to feel them strewMy sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus oldLumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

A crown of ivy! I submit my headTo the young hand that gives it—young, ’tis true,But with a right, for ’tis a poet’s too.How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spreadWith their broad angles, like a nodding shedOver both eyes! and how complete and new,As on my hand I lean, to feel them strewMy sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus oldLumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

A crown of ivy! I submit my head

To the young hand that gives it—young, ’tis true,

But with a right, for ’tis a poet’s too.

How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread

With their broad angles, like a nodding shed

Over both eyes! and how complete and new,

As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew

My sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!

Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,

Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,

And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus old

Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,

And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,

Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

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