Where are they now?—in Summer's light
Go! seek the Winter's snow;
Forgotten is our name and might,
And broken is our bow!
The White Man came, his bayonets gleam,
Where Sachems held their sway;
And like the shadow of a dream,
Our tribe has pass'd away!
If ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one-
Stop at a palace near the Reggis-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you—but before you go,
Enter the house- forget it not, I pray you
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family,
Done by Zampieri - but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it—ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware!".
Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp,
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart -
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody.
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Anthony of Trent,
With scripture stories from the life of Christ.
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That by the way it may be true or falseBut dont forget the picture, and you will not When you have heard the tale they told me there :
She was an only child her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour,
Now frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting,
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And fill'd his glass to all—but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger;
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guess'd
But that she was not!
Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived- and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless - then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search,
'Mid the old lumber on the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
"Twas done as soon as said: but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd — save a wedding ring,
And a small seal - her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."
There had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few, and short, were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow.
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But nothing he'll reck, if they'll let him sleep on,
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing.
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