The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
TASSO AND HIS SISTER.
“Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la sœur de Tasse, quand
il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure amie, un asyle contre l'injustice
des princes.—Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egaré sa
raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son génie.”—Corinne.
She sat, where on each wind that sigh'd,
The citron's breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn'd in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full of sweet laughter found,
As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.
The citron's breath went by,
While the red gold of eventide
Burn'd in the Italian sky.
Her bower was one where daylight's close
Full of sweet laughter found,
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
Hush'd as by words of power.
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed
Up to their mother's face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised
They stood in silent grace.
Her children stood that hour,
Their bursts of song and dancing glee
Hush'd as by words of power.
With bright fix'd wondering eyes, that gazed
Up to their mother's face,
With brows through parted ringlets raised
They stood in silent grace.
257
While she—yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread—
Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted pen and sword,
The triumph—and the tears.
Of mournfulness was spread—
Forth from a poet's magic book
The glorious numbers read;
The proud undying lay, which pour'd
Its light on evil years;
His of the gifted pen and sword,
The triumph—and the tears.
She read of fair Erminia's flight,
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier;
Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.
Which Venice once might hear
Sung on her glittering seas at night
By many a gondolier;
Of him she read, who broke the charm
That wrapt the myrtle grove;
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.
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,
Came sweet, each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.
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,
Came sweet, each pause between;
When a strange voice of sudden grief
Burst on the gentle scene.
The mother turn'd—a way-worn man,
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.
But drops which would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gush'd free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
“Forgotten! e'en by thee!
In pilgrim garb, stood nigh,
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Of proud yet mournful eye.
But drops which 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 changed?—and yet we two
Oft hand in hand have play'd;—
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,
From wreaths which thou hast made;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain;
My soul is dim with clouds of care—
Tell me those words again!
Oft hand in hand have play'd;—
This brow hath been all bathed in dew,
From wreaths which thou hast made;
We have knelt down and said one prayer,
And sung one vesper strain;
My soul is dim with clouds of care—
Tell me those words again!
“Life hath been heavy on my head,
I come a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here.”
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame—
She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother's name.
I come a stricken deer,
Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled,
To bleed in stillness here.”
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept
Shook all her thrilling frame—
She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother's name.
Her brother's name!—and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?—
He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the sword and pen!
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?—
He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,
He of the sword and pen!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |