University of Virginia Library

I.
I stood on yonder rocky brow,[10]
And marvelled at the Sibyl's fane,
When I was not what I am now.
My life was then untouched of pain;
And, as the breeze that stirred my hair,
My spirit freshened in the sky,
And all things that were true and fair
Lay closely to my loving eye,
With nothing shadowy between —
I was a boy of seventeen.
Yon wond'rous temple crests the rock —
As light upon its giddy base,
As stirless with the torrent's shock,
As pure in its proportioned grace,
And seems a thing of air — as then,
Afloat above this fairy glen;
But though mine eye will kindle still
In looking on the shapes of art,
The link is lost that sent the thrill,
Like lightning, instant to my heart.
And thus may break before we die,
Th' electric chain 'twixt soul and eye!
Ten years — like yon bright valley, sown
Alternately with weeds and flowers —
Had swiftly, if not gayly, flown,
And still I loved the rosy Hours;
And if there lurked within my breast
Some nerve that had been overstrung
And quivered in my hours of rest,
Like bells by their own echo rung,
I was with hope a masquer yet,
And well could hide the look of sadness;
And, if my heart would not forget,
I knew, at least, the trick of gladness;
And when another sang the strain,
I mingled in the old refrain.
'Twere idle to remember now,
Had I the heart, my thwarted schemes.
I bear beneath this altered brow
The ashes of a thousand dreams —
Some wrought of wild Ambition's fingers,
Some colored of Love's pencil well —
But none of which a shadow lingers,
And none whose story I could tell.
Enough, that when I climbed again
To Tivoli's romantic steep,
Life had no joy, and scarce a pain,
Whose wells I had not tasted deep;
And from my lips the thirst had passed
For every fount save one — the sweetest — and the last.
The last — the last! My friends were dead,
Or false; my mother in her grave;
Above my father's honored head
The sea had locked its hiding wave;
Ambition had but foiled my grasp,
And love had perished in my clasp;
And still, I say, I did not slack
My love of life, and hope of pleasure,
But gathered my affections back;
And, as the miser hugs his treasure
When plague and ruin bid him flee,
I closer clung to mine — my loved, lost Melanie!

The last of the De Brevern race,
My sister claimed no kinsman's care;
And, looking from each other's face,
The eye stole upward unaware —
For there was naught whereon to lean
Each other's heart and heaven between —
Yet that was world enough for me;
And, for a brief but blessed while,
There seemed no care for Melanie
If she could see her brother smile!
But life with her was at the flow,
And every wave went sparkling higher,
While mine was ebbing, fast and low,
From the same shore of vain desire;
And knew I, with prophetic heart,
That we were wearing, aye, insensibly apart.
II.
We came to Italy. I felt
A yearning for its sunny sky;
My very spirit seemed to melt
As swept its first warm breezes by.
From lip and cheek a chilling mist,
From life and soul a frozen rime,
By every breath seemed softly kissed —
God's blessing on its radiant clime!
It was an endless joy to me
To see my sister's new delight;
From Venice in its golden sea
To Pœstum in its purple light —
By sweet Val d'Arno's teinted hills —
In Vallombrosa's convent gloom —
Mid Terni's vale of singing rills —
By deathless lairs in solemn Rome —
In gay Palermo's “Golden Shell” —
At Arethusa's hidden well —
We loitered like th' impassioned sun
That slept so lovingly on all,
And made a home of every one —
Ruin, and fane, and waterfall —
And crowned the dying day with glory
If we had seen, since morn, but one old haunt of story.
We came with Spring to Tivoli.
My sister loved its laughing air
And merry waters, though, for me,
My heart was in another key;
And sometimes I could scarcely bear
The mirth of their eternal play,
And, like a child that longs for home
When weary of its holyday,
I sighed for melancholy Rome.
Perhaps — the fancy haunts me still —
'Twas but a boding sense of ill.
It was a morn, of such a day
As might have dawned on Eden first,
Early in the Italian May.
Vine-leaf and flower had newly burst,
And on the burthen of the air
The breath of buds came faint and rare;
And far in the transparent sky
The small, earth-keeping birds were seen
Soaring deliriously high;
And through the clefts of newer green
Yon waters dashed their living pearls;
And with a gayer smile and bow
Trooped on the merry village-girls;
And from the contadino's brow
The low-slouched hat was backward thrown,
With air that scarcely seemed his own;
And Melanie, with lips apart,
And clasped hands upon my arm,
Flung open her impassioned heart,
And blessed life's mere and breathing charm;
And sang old songs, and gathered flowers,
And passionately bless'd once more life's thrilling hours.
In happiness and idleness
We wandered down yon sunny vale —
Oh mocking eyes! — a golden trees
Floats back upon this summer gale!
A foot is tripping on the grass!
A laugh rings merry in mine ear!
I see a bounding shadow pass! —
O God! my sister once was here!
Come with me, friend. — We rested yon!
There grew a flower she plucked and wore!
She sat upon this mossy stone —
That broken fountain running o'er
With the same ring, like silver bells.
She listened to its babbling flow,
And said, “Perhaps the gossip tells
Some fountain-nymph's love-story now!”
And as her laugh ran clear and wild,
A youth — a painter — passed and smiled.
He gave the greeting of the morn
With voice that lingered in mine ear.
I knew him sad and gentle born
By those two words — so calm and clear.
His frame was slight, his forehead high
And swept by threads of raven hair,
The fire of thought was in his eye,
And he was pale and marble fair,
And Grecian chisel never caught
The soul in those slight features wrought.
I watched his graceful step of pride,
Till hidden by yon leaning tree,
And loved him ere the echo died;
And so, alas! did Melanie!
We sat and watched the fount awhile
In silence, but our thoughts were one;
And then arose, and, with a smile
Of sympathy, we sauntered on;
And she by sudden fits was gay,
And then her laughter died away,
And in this changefulness of mood
(Forgotten now those May-day spells)
We turned where Varro's villa stood,
And gazing on the Cascatelles,
(Whose hurrying waters wild and white
Seemed maddened as they burst to light,)
I chanced to turn my eyes away,
And lo! upon a bank, alone,
The youthful painter, sleeping, lay!
His pencils on the grass were thrown
And by his side a sketch was flung,
And near him as I lightly crept,
To see the picture as he slept,
Upon his feet he lightly sprung;
And, gazing with a wild surprise
Upon the face of Melanie,
He said — and dropped his earnest eyes-
“Forgive me! but I dreamed of thee!”
His sketch, the while, was in my hand,
And, for the lines I looked to trace —
A torrent by a palace spanned,
Half-classic and half fairy-land —
I only found — my sister's face!
III.
Our life was changed. Another love
In its lone woof began to twine:
But ah! the golden thread was wove
Between my sister's heart and mine!
She who had lived for me before —
She who had smiled for me alone —
Would live and smile for me no more!
The echo to my heart was gone!
It seemed to me the very skies
Had shone through those averted eyes;
The air had breathed of balm — the flower
Of radiant beauty seemed to be —
But as she loved them, hour by hour,
And murmured of that love to me!
Oh, though it be so heavenly high
The selfishness of earth above,
That, of the watchers in the sky,
He sleeps who guards a brother's love —
Though to a sister's present weal
The deep devotion far transcends
The utmost that the soul can feel
For even its own higher ends —

Though next to God, and more than heaven
For his own sake, he loves her, even —
'Tis difficult to see another,
A passing stranger of a day
Who never hath been friend or brother,
Pluck with a look her heart away —
To see the fair, unsullied brow
Ne'er kissed before without a prayer,
Upon a stranger's bosom now,
Who for the boon took little care —
Who is enriched, he knows not why —
Who suddenly hath found a treasure
Golconda were too poor to buy,
And he perhaps, too cold to measure —
(Albeit, in her forgetful dream,
Th' unconscious idol happier seem),
'Tis difficult at once to crush
The rebel mourner in the breast,
To press the heart to earth and hush
Its bitter jealousy to rest —
And difficult — the eye gets dim,
The lip wants power — to smile on him!
I thank sweet Mary Mother now,
Who gave me strength those pangs to hide —
And touched mine eyes and lit my brow
With sunshine that my heart belied.
I never spoke of wealth or race
To one who asked so much from me —
I looked but in my sister's face,
And mused if she would happier be;
And hour by hour, and day by day,
I loved the gentle painter more,
And, in the same soft measure, wore
My selfish jealousy away:
And I began to watch his mood,
And feel, with her, love's trembling care,
And bade God bless him as he wooed
That loving girl so fond and fair.
And on my mind would sometimes press
A fear that she might love him less.
But Melanie — I little dreamed
What spells the stirring heart may move —
Pygmalion's statue never seemed
More changed with life, than she with love!
The pearl teint of the early dawn
Flushed into day-spring's rosy hue —
The meek, moss-folded bud of morn
Flung open to the light and dew —
The first and half-seen star of even
Waxed clear amid the deepening heaven —
Similitudes perchance may be!
But these are changes oftener seen,
And do not image half to me
My sister's change of face and mein.
'Twas written in her very air
That Love had passed and entered there.
IV.
A calm and lovely paradise
Is Italy, for minds at ease.
The sadness of its sunny skies
Weighs not upon the lives of these.
The ruined aisle, the crumbling fane,
The broken column, vast and prone —
It may be joy — it may be pain —
Amid such wrecks to walk alone!
The saddest man will sadder be,
The gentlest lover gentler there —
As if, whate'er the spirit's key,
It strengthened in that solemn air.
The heart soon grows to mournful things,
And Italy has not a breeze
But comes on melancholy wings;
And even her majestic trees
Stand ghost-like in the Cœsars' home,
As if their conscious roots were set
In the old graves of giant Rome,
And drew their sap all kingly yet!
And every stone your feet beneath
Is broken from some mighty thought;
And sculptures in the dust still breathe
The fire with which their lines were wrought;
And sundered arch, and plundered tomb,
Still thunder back the echo, “Rome!”
Yet, gayly o'er Egeria's fount
The ivy flings its emerald veil,
And flowers grow fair on Numa's mount,
And light-sprung arches span the dale;
And soft, from Caracalla's Baths,
The herdsman's song comes down the breeze
While climb his goats the giddy paths
To grass-grown architrave and frieze;
And gracefully Albano's hill
Curves into the horizon's line;
And sweetly sings that classic rill;
And fairly stands that nameless shrine;
And here, oh, many a sultry noon
And starry eve, that happy June,
Came Angelo and Melanie!
And earth for us was all in tune —
For while Love talked with them, Hope walked apart with me!
V.
I shrink from the embittered close
Of my own melancholy tale.
'Tis long since I have waked my woes —
And nerve and voice together fail,
The throb beats faster at my brow,
My brain feels warm with starting tears,
And I shall weep — but heed not thou!
'Twill sooth awhile the ache of years!
The heart transfixed — worn out with grief —
Will turn the arrow for relief.
The painter was a child of shame!
It stirred my pride to know it first,
For I had questioned but his name,
And, thought, alas! I knew the worst,
Believing him unknown and poor.
His blood, indeed, was not obscure;
A high-born Conti was his mother,
But, though he knew one parent's face,
He never had beheld the other,
Nor knew his country or his race.
The Roman hid his daughter's shame
Within St. Mona's convent wall,
And gave the boy a painter's name —
And little else to live withal!
And with a noble's high desires
For ever mounting in his heart,
The boy consumed with hidden fires,
But wrought in silence at his art;
And sometimes at St. Mona's shrine,
Worn thin with penance harsh and long,
He saw his mother's form divine,
And loved her for their mutual wrong.
I said my pride was stirred — but no!
The voice that told its bitter tale
Was touched so mournfully with wo,
And, as he ceased, all deathly pale,
He loosed the hand of Melanie,
And gazed so gaspingly on me —
The demon in my bosom died!
“Not thine,” I said, “another's guilt;
I break no hearts for silly pride;
So, kiss yon weeper if thou wilt!”
VI.
St. Mona's morning mass was done,
The shrine-lamps struggled with the day;
And rising slowly, one by one,
Stole the last worshippers away.
The organist played out the hymn,
The incense, to St. Mary swung,
Had mounted to the cherubim,
Or to the pillars thinly clung;
And boyish chorister replaced
The missal that was read no more,
And closed, with half irreverent haste,
Confessional and chancel door;

And as, through aisle and oriel pane,
The sun wore round his slanting beam,
The dying martyr stirred again,
And warriors battled in its gleam;
And costly tomb and sculptured knight
Showed warm and wondrous in the light.
I have not said that Melanie
Was radiantly fair —
This earth again may never see
A loveliness so rare!
She glided up St. Mona's aisle
That morning as a bride,
And, full as was my heart the while,
I blessed her in my pride!
The fountain may not fail the less
Whose sands are golden ore,
And a sister for her loveliness,
May not be loved the more;
But as, the fount's full heart beneath,
Those golden sparkles shine,
My sister's beauty seemed to breathe
Its brightness over mine!
St. Mona has a chapel dim
Within the altar's fretted pale,
Where faintly comes the swelling hymn,
And dies half lost the anthem's wail.
And here, in twilight meet for prayer,
A single lamp hangs o'er the shrine,
And Raphael's Mary, soft and fair,
Looks down with sweetness half divine,
And here St. Mona's nuns alway
Through latticed bars are seen to pray.
Avé and sacrament were o'er,
And Angelo and Melanie
Still knelt the holy shrine before:
But prayer, that morn was not for me!
My heart was locked! The lip might stir,
The frame might agonize — and yet,
Oh God! I could not pray for her!
A seal upon my brow was set —
My brow was hot — my brain opprest —
And fiends seemed muttering round, “Your bridal is unblest!”
With forehead to the lattice laid,
And thin, white fingers straining through,
A nun the while had softly prayed.
Oh, even in prayer that voice I knew!
Each faltering word — each mournful tone —
Each pleading cadence, half-suppressed —
Such music had its like alone
On lips that stole it at her breast!
And ere the orison was done
I loved the mother as the son!
And now, the marriage vows to hear,
The nun unveiled her brow —
When, sudden, to my startled ear,
There crept a whisper, hoarse like fear,
“De Brevern! is it thou!”
The priest let fall the golden ring,
The bridegroom stood aghast,
While, like some weird and frantic thing,
The nun was muttering fast;
And as, in dread, I nearer drew,
She thrust her arms the lattice through,
And held me to her straining view —
But suddenly began
To steal upon her brain a light
That staggered soul, and sense, and sight,
And, with a mouth all ashy white,
She shrieked, “It is his son!
The bridegroom is thy blood — thy brother!
Rodolph de Brevern wronged his mother!
And, as that doom of love was heard,
My sister sunk — and died — without a sign or word!
I shed no tear for her. She died
With her last sunshine in her eyes.
Earth held for her no joy beside
The hope just shattered — and she lies
In a green nook of yonder dell;
And near her, in a newer bed,
Her lover — brother — sleeps as well!
Peace to the broken-hearted dead!