The Venetian bracelet :: :: University of Virginia Library

The wind threw back the curtain fraught with rose:—
Can sorrow be upon such gales as those?
Yes, for it waked the Countess. Up she sprung,
Startled, surprised, to see how she was flung
By the veranda,—and that open, too;
Her hair was heavy with the weight of dew;
Scarcely aroused, painful and slow she raised
Her weary head, and round in wonder gazed.
It was her own fair room,—some frightful dream,
But indistinct,—she struggled with a scream:
Her eye has caught a mirror,—that pale face,—
Why lip and brow are sullied by the trace

Of blood; its stain is on her tangled hair,
Which shroud-like hides the neck that else were bare.
Around that neck there is a fragile chain,
And memory's flood comes rushing o'er her brain:
Leoni's gift,—its slight gold links are broken,—
So are the vows of which it was the token.
Who has not loathed that worst, that waking hour,
When grief and consciousness assert their power;
When misery has morn's freshness, yet we fain
Would hold it as a dream, and sleep again;
Then know 'tis not illusion of the night,
And sicken at the cold and early light?
How ever shall we pass the weary day,
When thus we shudder at its opening ray?
She gazed upon the glass, then glanced around,
In wonder at the contrast which she found.

The walls were faintly colour'd with the bloom
Which comes when morn has struggled through the gloom,
And blushes for success: the silken veil
Of the blue hangings seem'd to catch the gale,
Then keep its sweetness prisoner: on the floor
The Persian loom had spread its velvet store:
Vases stood round, each carved with such fine art,
The flowers that fill'd seem'd of themselves a part;
A sandal lute lay on an inlaid stand,
Whose rich wrought ivory spoke its Indian land;
Shells of bright colours, foreign toys of gold,
And crystals wrought in many a curious mould;
Pictures, a prince's ransom in their worth;
Small alabaster statues—all that earth

Has rich or varied, all that wealth could buy,
Loathing she turn'd. “Yet what a wretch am I!
This must not be!—stain'd cheek and fever'd brow
Too much the secret of my soul avow.
Aye deep as is the grave my heart shall keep
What burning tears Amenaïde could weep.
Oh, never let Leoni know the worst:
'Tis well if he believe I changed the first.
Too much e'en to myself has been reveal'd,
—And thus be every trace of tears conceal'd.”
She sought the alcove where the fountain play'd,
And wash'd from lip and cheek their crimson shade;
And bathed her long hair, till its glossy curls
Wore not a trace but of the dewy pearls
The waters left, as if in pity shed;
She loosed the bolt, and sought her silken bed;

But easier far had been the rack, the wheel:—
When hath the body felt what mind can feel?