Poems, translated and original

_A Garden_--TERESA _appears, descending the steps of a balcony_.

Teresa. ’Tis sunset, and he is not here; though wont To anticipate the hour! It matters not. How lovely is the silvery, deepening twilight! There needs but some faint sound, in melody Stealing upon the silence--some fond whisper Which makes us sigh for quiet in return, To muse upon its meaning! (_A strain of music without, which continues for some moments._)

_Enter_ FOSCARINI.

Foscarini. She listens like a goddess, fresh from heaven, To airs that breathe nought heavenly save her name. The winds that wanton, lady, o’er thy lips, Steal thence the fragrance that with prodigal wings They lavish round the world!

Teresa. Flatterer! thy boldness I would rebuke, but that thy tones have music That charms away reproof.

Foscarini. Oh! woman, woman! Who marking on your cheek the sudden brightness, The brow that strives so vainly to compel Disdain to sit there--who could deem you loved not The voice of homage? Nay--sweet monitor----

Teresa. I never feigned disdain.

Foscarini. Nor felt it?

Teresa. Never Toward you.

Foscarini. Why thanks; and well may I be proud, Who merit scorn so richly; rashly seeking To win such excellence, as other eyes Are blinded while they gaze on!

Teresa. Again, again!

Foscarini. Forgive me--it is hard to measure words When the heart overflows. Mine own Teresa! Do I not love--have I not loved thee long? As we do ever love all gentle things, All glorious things, and holy--the rich flowers-- The brilliant morn--the far and smiling heaven! All these grow sometimes pale;--heaven is o’ercast-- The dawn is clouded--and the fickle flowers Are blighted ere their bloom be ripe!--Oh, tell me, Who shall ensure to love, in chilling absence, Exemption from their change?

Teresa. It owns no change. To speak like you in figures,--wears the sky A fainter hue, because some cloud awhile Obscures its glory to terrestrial eyes? But wherefore talk of absence?

Foscarini. We must part.

Teresa. Part!

Foscarini. For a time. Let it not blanch thy cheek, Though, sooth, that hue of fear is dearer far Than were ten thousand roses.

Teresa. Has my favor O’erwearied you so soon?

Foscarini. Nay! thou dost wrong Thy favor, to say thus. What could have power To lure me from thy presence, save the trust That short-lived sorrow should a harvest yield Of rich, enduring bliss? [_Music heard at a distance._ Hark! ’tis the gondola That waits to bear me hence. I must not linger. Come with me for a space; and as we go I’ll tell thee of my hopes--hopes that will banish Intrusive fear, and clothe the rugged peaks Of wild Helvetia’s Alps with smiles and flowers, Breathing Elysian fragrance o’er their snows! [_Exeunt._