Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, Tell her my heart within me burns And tell our white-hair'd father, And tell our gentle mother, That on her grave I pour The sorrows of my spirit forth, Happy thou art that soon, how soon, THE RETURN. "HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back? The free, the pure, the kind?” -So murmur'd the trees in my homeward track, As they play'd to the mountain-wind. "Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" Whisper'd my native streams; THE RETURN. "Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" "Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, "Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead. With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, I bring not my childhood's heart again "I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd The prayer at my mother's knee; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee! "But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone; And oh ye scenes of those bless'd years, MITFORD. RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. Rienzi. Claudia-nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale As marble; those unseeing eyes were fix'd On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent As sternly, as if the rude stranger, ThoughtAge-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless ThoughtHad knock'd at thy young giddy brain. To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice, In her small housewifery, the blithest bee Cla. Oh! mine old home! Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird? Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids, My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse; And old Camillo. Oh! mine own dear home! Rien. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old, fond nurse, And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves, Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia, Old Camillo ! Thou shalt have nobler servants, emperors, kings, In Christendom but would right proudly kneel Cla. Oh! mine own dear home! Rien. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet! If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall? And if, at eventide, they heard not oft A tuneful mandoline, and then a voice, Clear in its manly depth, whose tide of song Young Angelo? Yes? Saidst thou yes? That heart, I cannot hear thy words. He is return'd |