He that through dust the stream of life can pour, -Yet oft His paths have midnight for their shade He leaves to man the ruin man hath made!— TASSO AND HIS SISTER. "Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin démander à cette obscure amie, un asile contre l'injustice des princes.-Ses longues douleurs avoient presque égaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que du génie." Corinne. SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd The citron's breath went by; While the deep gold of eventide Burn'd in the Italian sky. Her bower was one where daylight's close As thence the voice of childhood rose To the high vineyards round. But still and thoughtful, at her knee, Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song, and dancing glee, With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd Up to their mother's face; With brows through parting ringlets rais'd, While she-yet something o'er her look The glorious numbers read ; His of the gifted Pen and Sword,* She read of fair Erminia's flight, Which Venice once might hear, Sung on her glittering seas at night, *It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men. Of him she read, who broke the charm Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, Young holy hearts were stirr'd; And the meek tears of woman flow'd Fast o'er each burning word. And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, The mother turn'd—a way-worn man, Of proud, yet restless eye. But drops that would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gush'd free, As, pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee! "Am I so chang'd?-and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'dThis brow hath been all bath'd in dew, From wreaths which thou hast made. We have knelt down and said one prayer, sang one vesper strain And My thoughts are dim with clouds of care- "Life hath been heavy on my head; Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, -She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept, She fell upon his neck, and wept, Her brother's name !-and who was he, That came, the bitter world to flee, A stranger to his own? |