No More Learning

A s soon as they arrived, in F lorence, N evil wrote to Castel
F orte; and in a few minutes the Prince came to him. I t
was some time ere either spok e; at last N evil ask ed for
Corinne. " I have none but sad news for you," said her
friend: " she grows weak er every day; sees no one but
myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I
think she has been calmer since we learnt you were in
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? 374CO R I N ' N B ; O R I TA L Y .
I taly; though I cannot disguise from you, that at first her
emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of fever.
S he has not told me her intentions, for I carefully avoid
your name. " -- " H ave the goodness, Prince," said O
" to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since:
it contained a detail of all the circumstances that prevented
my hearing of her j ourney to S cotland before I married.
W hen she has read it, ask her to receive me. I long to
j ustify myself with her, if possible. H er esteem is essential
swald,
to me, though I can no longer pretend to more. " -- " I will
obey your desires, my L ord," said Castel F orte, " and wish
that I may in any way be of service. " L ady N evil now-
entered the room. O swald made her k nown to his friend.
S he met him coldly. H e gazed on her with much attention,
sighed, thought of Corinne, and took leave. O swald fol-
lowed him. " L ady N evil is very beautiful," said the
Prince: " so fresh and young! A las! my poor love is
no longer so; yet forget not, my L ord, that she was a bril-
liant creature when you saw her first. " -- " F orget! " ex -
claimed O swald; " no, nor ever forgive myself. " H e
could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was
gloomily silent. L ucy sought not to disturb him: her for-
bearance was unluck y; for he only thought, " H
beheld me sad, she would have striven to console me. "
nex t morning his anx iety early led him to Castel F
ad Corinne
The
orte.
" W ell! " hecried," whatsaysshe? " -- " Thatshewill
not see you," answered the Prince. -- " A nd her motives? "
-- " I found her yesterday, in spite her weak ness, pacing
the room all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way
to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly as it rose. I
told her your req uest: after some instants' silence, she
said-- ifyouex actfrommeherownwords,-- ' Thatman
has done me too much wrong already; but the foe who
threw me into prison, banished and proscribed me, has not
yet brought my spirit q uite so low as he may think . I have
suffered more than woman ever endured beside -- alternate
fondness and indignation mak ing thought a perpetual tor-
ture. O swald should remember that I once told him it
would cost me more to renounce my admiration than my
love. H e has despoiled the obj ect of my worship: he de-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 375
ceived me, voluntarily or otherwise -- no matter: he is not
what I believed him. H e sported for nearly a year with
my affection; and, when he ought to have defended me,
when his actions should have proved he had a heart, how
did he treat me? Can he boast of having made one ge-
nerous sacrifice? N o! he is happy now, possessing all the
advantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying; let
him leave me in peace! "
sighed O swald. -- " S
Castel F orte; " yet I
-- " These words are very harsh,' '
he is changed by suffering," admitted
have often found her so charitable,
that, let me own, she has defended you against me. " --
" Y ou think me unpardonable, then ? " -- "
I f you permit
me to say so. The inj uries we may do women hurt not us in
public opinion. The fragile idol of to-day may be brok en
to-morrow, without finding one protector; for that very
reason do I respect the sex , whose moral welfare can find
its safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by
the law; but break ing a tender heart is a theme for j est.
I would forgive murder by poniard soonest. " -- "
me," cried N evil, " I , too, have been wretched,--
B elieve
that is my
sole ex tenuation; but formerly she would have listened to
it, now it avails me nothing; yet I will write to her: I
still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet un-
derstand me. " -- " I will bear your letter, my L ord;
entreat you temper it well; you guess not what you are
to her. Y ears can but deepen an impression, when no
new idea has divided its empire. W ould you k now in
what state she is at present? A fantasy, from which my
prayers could not divert her, enables me to show you. "
H e opened the door of another room; and N evil first be-
held a portrait of Corinne as she appeared in J uliet, on
the night, of all others, when he felt most enamoured of
her. The confidence of happiness breathed from each fea-
ture. The memories of that festal time came back on O s-
wald' s heart; but as he yielded to them, the prince took
hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed
him Corinne, painted that same year, in the black dress, such
as she had never abandoned since her return from E ngland.
H er lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him
but I
his
in the Park : but above all was he struck with the total change
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? 316 C0R 1K N E J O R I TA L Y .
in her appearance. The long black lashes veiled her lan-
guid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek :
beneath was written this line, from the Pastor F ido, --
" A penasipuodir,' Q uestafurosa! ' "
" S carcely can we now say, ' This was a rose ! '
"
' ' H ow! " criedL ordN eyil; " look sshelik ethis? " --
" W ithin the last fortnight still worse," returned the
Prince; and O swald rushed from him, as if distracted.
CH A PTE R I I I .
The unhappy man shut himself in his room. A t the dinner
hour, L ucy, leading J uliet by the hand, tapped gently at
his door: he opened itv saying, " Think not the worse of
me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-
day. " H is wife raised her child in her arms, and retired
without a word. H e now look ed at the letter he had written
to Corinne, and, bursting into tears, ex claimed, " S hall I ,
then, mak e poor L ucy wretched too? W hat is my life worth,
if it serves but to render all who love me miserable? "
L etter from L ord N evil to Corinne.
" W ere you not the most generous of human beings,
what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by
reproaches, or still lower by your griefs? I have done such
ill to her I loved, that I
A m I , Corinne? I
self an utter barbarian!
almost believe myself a monster.
suffer so much, that I cannot think my-
Y ou k now, when first I met you,
I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the
grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against
your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments of
misfortune lingered still. S ometimes I believed you des-
tined by my father to mak e me once more feel myself as
well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to dia-
" iij
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? corinne; or italy. 377
obey his will, in marrying a foreigner. O n my return to
E ngland this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by
parental authority. H ad he still lived I should have felt a
right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and the
irrevocable commands of those now powerless possess a
touching and a sacred force. -- O nce more surrounded by
the ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my
sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a q uiet
life. My weak ness mak es me dread some k inds of agitation:
my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul
shrink s from resolves that interfere with its original habits
or affections. Y et, Corinne, had I k nown you were in
E ngland, that proof of tenderness would have decided me.
A h! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? S hould
we have been content? A m I capable of being so? Could
I ever have chosen any one fate, without still pining after
some other? W hen you restored my liberty I fell into the
common error, telling myself that so superior a woman
might easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have
wounded your heart, I k now; but I thought mine the only
sacrifice: I deemed you would forget me. I cannot deny
that L ucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I
could give her; but since I learnt your voyage to E ngland,
and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual
pain. I sought for death, certain that when you heard I
was no more, you would forgive me. Doubtless you can
oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, such as my ingra-
titude ill merits; yet think -- a thousand complicated cir-
cumstances invade the constancy of man. I magine, if
possible, that I have neither given nor received felicity; that
my heart has been lonely since^ I left you, scarce daring even
to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, who
has so manj f titles to my love, is a stranger to my history
and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced
me to the state from which your cares, Corinne, once ex -
tricated me. I f I have returned to I taly, not for my health
(you cannot suspect me of any love for life), but to bid you
farewell, can you refuse to see me but once more? I wish
it, because I think that it would benefit you; my own suf-
ferings less prompt this desire. W hat use were it that I
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? 378CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
am miserable, that a dreadful weight presses upon my heart,
if I came hither without obtaining pardon from you?
ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so; but I
certain that you would be solaced, if you could think
I
feel
upon
me as your friend, and read, in O swald' s look s and accents,
how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more
altered than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed,
and love your sister; but the human breast, wild and incon-
sistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what I feel
for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be
written; all I might ex plain would but condemn me;
if you saw me prostrate before you, through all my faults
and duties, you would perceive what you are to me still,
and that conversation would leave a balm for both. O ur
health is failing: H eaven may not accord us length of days.
L et then whichever may be destined to precede the other
feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent
alone deserve such j oy; but may it not be granted to the
yet
guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who canread all hearts,
guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used
to do. L
weak
N o;
et me but see you; let my pallid lips touch your
hand! I t was not I alone who wrought this ruin.
the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck
two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne, may
not be the least pitiable. "
A nswer.
" I f I req uired but to see and pardon you, I could not
for an instant refuse. W hy is it that I do not feel resent-
ment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dread-
ful? I must still love you, not to hate. R eligion alone
would not disarm me thus. There have been moments
when my reason has left me; others far sweeter, when I hoped
to die before the day could end; and some in which I have
doubted even virtue: you were to me its image here below:
there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when
the same blow struck both my admiration and my love.
W hat would have become of me without H eaven' s help?
E very thing in this world was poisoned by your image:
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? O O R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 379
one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My
strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I
j oy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy
of eternity: our bliss, our bane, alik e tend to this purpose;
and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on
earth. Y et when I saw your handwriting, learnt that you
were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult rose
within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, ' My
sister is his wife. ' To see you again appeared felicity: I
will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred
these indefinite raptures to an age of calm; but Providence
has not abandoned me in this peril. A re you not the
husband of another? W hat then have I to say to you?
I sitformetodieinyourarms? W hatwouldmycon-
science suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself
another hour with you? I can only appear before my God
with any thing lik e confidence by renouncing it. This re-
solution may appease my soul. S uch happiness as I felt
while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal
state; it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but
religious meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and
refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I k now
not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would mak e
on the repose I believe I have regained. W hy do you tell
me that your health is impaired? A las! I am no longer
your nurse; but still I suffer with you. May God bless
and prolong your days, my L ord! B e happy, but be so
through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gives
us in ourselves the power of confiding to a B eing who con-
soles us: it mak es two friends of one spirit. Do you still
seek for what the world calls happiness? W here will you
find more than my tenderness would have bestowed?
K now you that in the deserts of the N ew W orld I should
have blest my lot had you permitted me to follow you? I
could have served you lik e a slave, have k nelt before you
as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. W hat
have you done with so much faith? Y ou have changed it
into an affliction peerless as itself. O utrage me not, then,
by one hope of happiness, ex cept in prayer: let our
thoughts meet in heaven! Y et when I feel myself about
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? 880 corinne; or italy.
to die, perhaps I will be tak en somewhere whence I may
behold you pass. A ssuredly when my failing eyes can see
no more, your image will be with me; but might not a
recent review of your features render it more distinct?
Deities of old were never present at the hour of death,
so I forbid you mine; but I should lik e to see you per-
fectly when O swald, O swald!
behold how weak I am,
when abandoned to your recollection! W hy has not L ucy
sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister.
I have some k ind and even generous things to tell her.
A nd your child -- I ought not to meet you; but you are
surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or
fear ye that poor little J uliet would be scared at seeing me?
Ghost as I look , I yet could smile upon your daughter.
A dieu, my L ord, adieu! R emember that I might call you
brother. A t least you will mourn for me ex ternally, and,
as a k insman, follow my remains to R ome: let them be borne
by the road where my car passed; and pause upon the spot
where you restored my crown. Y et no, I am wrong, O s-
wald: I would ex act nothing that could afflict you, only
one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven
where I shall soon await you. "
CH A PTE R I V .
Many days elapsed ere O swald could regain his composure:
he avoided the presence of his wife, and passed whole
hours on the bank s of the river that separated him from
Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its waves, that
they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter
living. A mazed as he was at Corinne' s wish to see her
sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce the sub-
j ect? H e saw that L ucy was hurt by his distress, and hoped
that she would q uestion him; but she forbore, merely ex -
pressing a desire to visit R ome or N aples: he always
begged a brief delay, and L ucy, with cold dignity, was
silent. y* *
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 331
O swald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of
his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse tak e J uliet
to her. H e met them on their return, and ask ed the child
how she had enj oyed her visit. S he replied by an I talian
phrase, and with an accent so resembling Corinne' s, that
her father started. " W ho taught you that, dear? " he
ask ed. -- " Thelady," shereplied. -- " A ndhowdidshe
behavetoyou? " -- " O h,shek issedme,andcried; I
don' t k now why; but it made her worse, for she look s very
ill, papa. " -- " Do you love her, darling? " -- " That I do.
1 ' 11 go to her every day. S he has promised to teach me
all she k nows; and says, that she will mak e me grow lik e
Corinne: what' s that, pa? the lady did not tell me. " L ord
N evil could not answer: he withdrew, to conceal his agita-
tion, but bade the nurse tak e J uliet daily to Corinne.
Perhaps he erred in disposing of his child without her mo-
ther' s consent; but in a few days the young pupil' s progress
was astonishing: her masters for I talian and music were all
amazed. N othing had ever pained L ucy more than her
sister' s influence over J uliet' s education. The child in-
formed her that, ill as the lady seemed, she took great
pains with her. L ucy' s heart would have melted, could
she have seen in all this any thing but a design to win
N evil back . S he was divided between the natural wish of
being sole directress for her daughter, and self-reproach at
the idea of withholding her from such valuable instructions.
O ne day O swald came in as J uliet was practising a music
lesson. S he held a lyre proportioned to her size; and her
pretty arms fell into Corinne' s own attitude so perfectly,
that he felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture,
with the added grace of childish innocence. H e could not
speak , but sunk , trembling, on a seat. J uliet then played
the S cotch air which he had heard at Tivoli, before the
design from O ssian; he listened breathlessly. L ucy, un-
seen, stole behind him: as J uliet ceased, her father took
heronhisk nee,andsaid," Theladyonthebank softhe
A rno taught you this, did she not? " -- " Y es, papa; but
it hurt her very much: she was so ill while she taught me,
that I begged her to leave off, but she would not. S he
made me promise to play you that tune every year, on a par-
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? 382CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
ticular day, I believe it was the 17th of N ovember. " " My
God ! " cried O swald, bursting into tears. L ucy now stepped
forward, and, tak ing J uliet by the hand, said, hastily,
" My L ord, it is too much to rob me of my child' s affection;
that solace, at least, is due to my misfortunes. " S he re-
tired. O swald would have followed her, but was refused.
A t the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for
some time, not saying where. H e was fearfully alarmed at
her absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and
gentle air, such as he little ex pected. H e would now have
confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity, but
she replied, " E x planation, indeed, is needful to us both;
yet, my dear L ord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon
k now my motives for this req uest. " H er address, he per-
ceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its
warmth, its interest, increased. H e could not understand
this change: its cause is soon told. A ll that L ucy so long
had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she
made her husband; and, as usually happens to persons
who suddenly break from their habitual character, she now
ran into ex tremes, resolving to seek Corinne, and ask her
if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded
peace; but, as she arrived at her sister' s door, her diffi-
dence returned; nor could she have had courage to enter,
had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent
Theresina to entreat her. L ucy ascended to the sick
chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occu-
pant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an
ex ample of frank ness which it was impossible for L ucy not
to follow. S uch was that mind' s ascendency over every
one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor con-
straint could be preserved. Pallor and weak ness confirmed
her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth
added weight to her counsels. A ll Castel F
her, and all she had guessed from O swald'
that reserve and coldness separated the N
orte had told
s letters, proved
evils from each
other. S he entered very simply on this delicate subj ect:
her perfect k nowledge of the husband' s character enabled
her to point out why he req uired to find spontaneously in
those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit,
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 383
and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his
own susceptibility of discouragement. S he described her
past self impartially, as if speak ing of another, and showed
how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with
moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired
by a wish to atone for the loss fcf virtue. " Many women,"
she said, " have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but
for the sak e of their very errors; because they strove to
ex tort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and having so
much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on others.
Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let
your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne
and L ucy in one: nor let your own worth ex cuse to you a
moment' s neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect
render your manners repulsive. W ere your dignity ill
founded, it might wound him less; for an over-ex ertion of
certain rights chills the heart more than do unj ust preten-
sions. L ove delights in paying more than is due, where
nothing is ex acted. " L ucy thank ed her sister with much
tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her
welfare; and Corinne resumed,-- " I f I were doomed to live,
I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish
wish is, that O swald should find some traces of my influ-
ence in you and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that
reminded him not of Corinne. " L ady N evil returned to
her every day, and, with the most amiable delicacy, studied
to resemble the being so dear to her L ord. H is curiosity
increased, as he remark ed the fresh attractions she thus ac-
q uired: he k new that she must owe them to Corinne; yet,
L ucy having promised to k eep the secret of their meetings,
no ex planation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to
see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured
that she had but a few moments to live; but she involved
this plan in so much mystery, that L ucy k new not in what
manner it was to be accomplished.
CHAPTER V.
Corinne desired to bid N evil and I taly such a farewell as
might recall the days on which her genius shone with its
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? S S iCO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
full splendour. A pardonable weak ness . L ove and glory
were ever blended in her mind; and, at the moment when
her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished
O swald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman
of her day he had destroyed, -- the woman who best k new
how to love and think , -- whose brilliant success he had
obscured in misery and death.
S he had no longer the strength req uired by an impro-
visatrice; but in solitude, since O swald' s return, had re-
sumed her zest for writing poetry: she, therefore, named
a day for assembling, in one of the galleries, all who de-
sired to hear her verses, begging L ucy to bring her hus-
band; adding, " I feel I may demand this of you now. "
O swald was fearfully agitated, wondering what subj
had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: the
bare possibility of look ing on her threw him into ex
confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it
with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled,
the rain beat violently against the windows, and, by an
ect she
treme
eccentricity more freq uent in I taly than elsewhere, the
thunder added a sense of dread to all this gloom. O swald
could not speak : every thing around him increased the
desolation of his soul. H e entered the hall with L ucy:
it was immensely crowded. I n an obscure recess was placed
a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read
her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she
was, she had chosen those means of seeing O swald unseen.
A s soon as she k new that he was there, she veiled her face,
and was supported to this couch; from time to time stay-
ing to tak e breath, as if that short space had been a painful
j ourney: the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult.
S eating herself, her eyes sought O swald, found him, and
involuntarily starting up, she spread her arms; but in-
stantly fell back , turning away her face, lik e Dido when
she met iE neas in a world which human passions should
not penetrate. Castel F orte detained L ord N evil, who
now, utterly beside himself, would have flown to fail at
her feet: the Prince reminded him of the respect he owed
Corinne before the world. *
>> N ot a word of what he owed his wife. -- Tn.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 385
A . young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with
flowers, now appeared on the stage which had been erected.
H er meek and peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sen-
timents she was about to breathe; it was Corinne' s taste,
which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in
themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affectingly pre-
pared the auditors. The hapless O swald could not tear his
eyes from Corinne; she was to him as an apparition that
haunts a night of fever; it was through his own deep sighs
that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the
woman he had so much wronged addressed to his heart.
TH E L A S TS O N GO F CO R I N N E .
Tak e ye my solemn farewell! O my friends,
A lready night is dark ening on my eyes ; --
B ut is not H eaven most beautiful by night?
Thousands of stars shine in the k indling sk y,
W hich is an azure desert during day.
Thus do the gathering of eternal shades
R eveal innumerable thoughts, half lost
I n the full daylight of prosperity.
B ut weak ened is the voice which might instruct;
The soul retires within itself, and seek s
To gather round itself its failing fire.
F rom my first days of youth, my inward hope
W as to do honour to the R oman name;
That name at which the startled heart yet beats.
Y e have allow' d me fame, O generous land!
Y e banish not a woman from the shrine!
Y e do not sacrifice immortal gifts
To passing j ealousies. Y e who still yield
A pplause to Genius in its daring flight;
V ictor without the vanq uished, -- Conq ueror,
Y et without spoil; -- who, from eternity,
Draws riches for all time.
N ature and L ife! with what deep confidence
Y e did inspire me. I deem' d all grief arose
F or that we did not feel, or think enough;
A nd that we might, even on this our earth,
B eforehand taste that heavenly happiness,
W hich is -- but length in our enthusiasm,
B ut constancy in love.
co
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? 386 O O R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
N
N
W
I
I
I
o, I repent it not, this generous faith;
o -- that caused not the bitter tears I ' ve shed,
atering the dust which doth await me now.
had accomplish' d all my destiny --
had been worthy all the gifts of H eaven,
f I had only vow' d my sounding lyre
To celebrate that goodness all divine,
Made manifest throughout the universe.
A ndthou,myGod! -- O h,thouwiltnotrej ect
The offering of the mind; for poetry,
I ts homage is religious, and the wings
O f thought but serve to draw more near to thee.
R eligion has no limits, and no bonds; --
The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,
N ever from her may Genius separate.
I magination from its earliest flight,
Past o' er the bounds of life: and the sublime
I s the reflection of divinity.
A las! my God, had I loved only thee; *
I f I had raised my head aloft in heaven --
F rom passionate affections shelter' d there,
I had not now been crush' d before my time --
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,
I only k now it by my strength^ of grief:
Under the features of an enemy
I recognise it now.
F arewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land!
F arewell, remembrances of infancy,
F arewell! A h, what have ye to do with death?
A nd ye, who in my writings may have found
F eelings, whose echo was within your soul,
O h, friends of mine -- where' er ye be, --
Corinne has suffer' d much, -- but suffer'
I n an unworthy cause: she has not lost
A t least her claim on pity.
B eautiful I taly! it is in vain
To promise me your loveliness; my heart
I s worn and wasted; what can ye avail?
farewell!
d not
W ould ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs?
W ould ye recall my happiness, and thus
Mak e me revolt against my fate?
* " H adlbutservedmyGodwithhalfthezeal," & c-- J V olsey. (S iiA k spE A R a)
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? CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y . 387
Meek ly I do submit myself. O h, ye
W ho may survive me, -- when the spring returns,
R emember how I loved its loveliness!
H ow oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
F rom out my songs, -- my soul is written there:
B ut fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
W hen the designs of mighty Providence
A re work 71 in us, internal music mark s
The coming of the angel of the grave:
N or fearful, nor yet terrible, he spreads
H is white wings; and, though compass'
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
d by night,
I f the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear
H is voice; and when night falls, the shadows round
S eem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
A t noon, when life sees only the clear sk y,
F eels only the bright sun, the fated one
W hom Death hath called, upon the distance mark s
The heavy shade which is so soon to shroud
A ll nature from their eyes.
Y outh, hope, emotions of the heart -- ye all
A re now no more. F ar from me -- vain regrets;
I f I can yet obtain some falling tears,
I f I can yet believe myself beloved,
I t is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life,-- that life,
S oon would it turn upon me all its stings.
A nd R ome! R ome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
I f, with a trembling step, I j oin the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead!
F orgive me for my pity of myself. *
F eelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
A s might have yielded fruit -- ex pire with me.