Part 10 — THOU ART COLD.

Anna! methought thou wert a raptured saint,

Like those who loved and worshiped here of old,

In whom the fire of heaven and earth were blent:

But—thou art cold!

I dreamed thou wert an angel sent to me,

With radiant countenance, and wings of gold

All glowing with the tints of yon warm sky:

But—thou art cold!

An angel sent to breathe upon this heart,

Crushed and still quivering with pangs untold.

To soothe its anguish with some heavenly art;

But—thou art cold!

No pain responsive moves thy snowy breast —

No blushes dye thy cheek of Phidian mould —

No thoughts of love disturb thy dreamless rest;

Alas! thou’rt cold!

The flashes of thy deep and changeful eye,

The music from thy lips that trembling rolled,

The burning thoughts that rapt my soul on high;

These seemed not cold.

But rubies with a crimson lustre gleam;

Diamonds within them seem a fire to hold;

And the dank forest breathes its wand’ring flame: —

Like them thou’rt cold.

Oh fate! that one so beautiful and bright,

So fit t’inspire the meek, to daunt the bold.

To nerve ambition to its loftiest flight,

Should still be cold!

And yet, I love thee, Anna; in my heart,

As in a shrine, thine image I’ll enfold;

I’ll love thee, marble goddess as thou art,

Divine, though cold.

Then hie thee to thy far-off mountain dell!

Its roses long thy coming to behold,

They’ll lend their hues to make thy cheek less pale,

And seem less cold.

S.

Painted by E. Corbould. Engraved by A. B. Walter.

THE SPANISH LOVERS.