WHERE yellow Tiber rolls his tide

Onward in smooth tranquillity,

Through myrtle groves and meadows wide,

Defying mutability;

Which long hath laid her mould-clad finger

On aught else death hath left to linger,

1

Where Art and Genius had their birth

The loveliest, fairest spot on earth—
The flocks are gathered to their fold,
The fawns reposing on the wold;
The bells are rung, the mass is said,
The evening vespers duly made;
In hut, and cot, and castle dun,
Sleep hath her silent reign begun ;
The Moon is in her summer glow,
And meekly smiles on all below,
The stars are burning in the sky
Like Angels' censers lit on high;
While weeping lovers lift their eyes
Up to those calm cerulean skies,
Feeling that in those worlds above
Lies the unchequered home of love;
And in their frenzy of despair
Implore to be translated there,

Where soul its kindred soul will greet,
And baffled hearts each other meet,

Enfranchised from the ills of earth

The children of a holier birth;

And there, beneath the moon's pale sheen

Rises full many a mournful scene

The wide Campagna dim and lone

The Catacomb of nations gone,

And Rome's seven hills o'er Ruin's hearth,

The mimic Pleiades of earth;

The cypress in funereal gloom
O'erhanging many a hero's tomb,
Whose glorious memory shall outlive

All that vain pomp and wealth can give,
And shine until Time's latest day,

A halo over dark decay.

Yes, there they sleep! th' immortal brave,
Entombed in holy Freedom's grave-

The mighty arm that grasped the sword
To put to flight the savage horde,

The tongue that pleaded with applause
For liberty and God's high laws-
Cæsar and Tully, when-oh! when
Will such bright stars lume earth again?
There thrones and temples lie around,

There wrecks of empires strew the ground;

Decay and Slavery have wed,

And Genius rests her drooping head;

And placid Beauty still appears,

Meek smiling through her limpid tears,

And Death sits throned on Glory's tomb

Triumphant o'er the wrecks of joy and bloom.

II.

By Tiber, UGO's castle stands,

Surrounded by an olive grove,

And glassy seas, and myrtled strands

The hallowed shrine of Peace and Love. The guards are dozing round the wall,

Nor lamp nor step is in the hall,
And at this late and lonely hour
One waning light reveals the tower ;
And there, her rosary completed,
Lord UGo's only child is seated;

Her untuned harp and jewels nigh,

A web of rich embroidery,

And flowers that breathe around the room

From golden vases sweet perfume.

She weeps not, but her restless eye

Betrays her deep anxiety;

Now lost in thoughtful mood she sits

Now hurried o'er the carpet flits—

Then by the lattice bends her ear

"A step?—'Tis he!" O God! her fear

If UGO should her lover spy,

This night-this night, they both must die!

Her slight frame like the aspen shook,
And Reason half her throne forsook;
With terror pale—with sorrow drunk,
Reeling, upon the couch she sunk.

III.

'Tis past! LEON is in her room— A stately youth in manhood's bloom,

With cloak of black and hood of blue,

And hair and eye of sablest hue;

And by his side a sabre gleaming,

And from his eye his high soul beaming,

Lighting his lofty olive brow

Paling with apprehension now—

"Be calm! sweet FLORENCE, do not fear; The wall is scaled, and I am here,"

He said, half drawing from its sheath
His blade, "thy champion until death;
Nor have I breath or time to waste-
Nay, prudence bids me be in haste;
A few words only can I say,

Which I could trust none to convey

Words far too pure-too sacred-dear,