She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold, Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ.
A chest that came from Venice and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child—her name GENEVRA,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, FRANCESCO DORIA,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress. She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum,
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to he found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life,
FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk!
Orsini lived-and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find, he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile,
Silent and tenantless ;-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery.
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Genevra,
Why not remove it from its lurking place?'
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"GENEVRA,"
There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch snall spring,
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy at her peals shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.
The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.
CHEERED by this hope she bends her thither;-
Still laughs the radiant eye of Heaven,
Nor have the golden bowers of Even
In the rich West begun to wither,-
When, o'er the vale of BALBEC winging
Slowly, she sees a child at play,
Among the rosy wild flowers singing,
As rosy and as wild as they ;
Chasing, with eager hands and eyes,
The beautiful blue damsel-flies,
That fluttered round the jasmine stems,
Like winged flowers or flying gems:
And, near the boy, who tired with play,
Now nestling mid the roses lay,
She saw a wearied man dismount,
From his hot steed, and on the brink
Of a small imaret's rustic fount
Impatient fling him down to drink.
Then swift his haggard brow he turned
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