The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 13, Page 467-469
RECORDS OF WOMAN.—NO. I.
Imelda.*[1]
"Sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate—like thee, Imelda."—Rogers.
We have the myrtle's breath around us here,
Amidst the fallen pillars; this hath been
Some Naiad's fane of old. How brightly clear,
Flinging a gleam of silver o'er the scene,
Up through the shadowy grass, the fountain wells,
And music with it, gushing from beneath
The ivied altar!—that sweet murmur tells
The rich wild flowers no tale of woe or death;
Yet once the wave was darken'd, and a stain
Lay deep, and heavy drops—but not of rain—
On the dim violets by its marble bed,
And the pale shining water-lily's head.
Sad is that legend's truth.—A fair girl met
One whom she loved, by this lone temple's spring,
Just as the sun behind the pine-grove set,
And eve's low voice in whispers woke, to bring
All wanderers home. They stood, that gentle pair,
With the blue heaven of Italy above,
And citron-odours fainting on the air,
And light leaves trembling round, and early love
Deep in each breast. What reck'd their souls of strife
Between their fathers? Unto them, young life
Spread out the treasures of its vernal years;
And if they wept, they wept far other tears
Than the cold world wrings forth. They stood, that hour,
Speaking of hope, while tree, and fount, and flower,
And star, just gleaming through the cypress boughs,
Seem'd holy things, as records of their vows.
But change came o'er the scene; a hurrying tread
Broke on the whispery shades. Imelda knew
The footstep of her brother's wrath, and fled,
Up where the cedars make yon avenue
Dim with green twilight: pausing there, she caught—
Was it the clash of swords?—a swift dark thought
Struck down her lip's rich crimson, as it pass'd,
And from her eye the sunny sparkle took,
One moment, with its fearfulness, and shook
Her slight frame fiercely, as a stormy blast
Might rock the rose! Once more, and yet once more,
She still'd her heart to listen—all was o'er;
Sweet summer-winds alone were heard to sigh,
Bearing the nightingale's deep spirit by.
That night Imelda's voice was in the song,
Lovely it floated through the festive throng,
Peopling her father's halls. That fatal night,
Her eye look'd starry in its dazzling light,
And her cheek glow'd with Beauty's flushing dyes,
Like a rich cloud of eve in southern skies,
- ↑ * See Sismondi's Historie des Républiques Italiennes, vol. 3, p. 443.
