The Wilmingtonian, And Delaware Advertiser

POETRY.

The Italian Peasant Girl dictating a Love Letter.

Come, thou old, unloving scribe,
Thou shalt have a noble bribe:
Choose it—medal, coin, or gem,
Topaz ring, or coral stem:
Take thy pen and tell my love,
How, to earth and heaven above,
How, to every sainted maid,
I have watch'd, and wept and pray'd,
O'er him, with their wings to stoop,
Where he steers his bold chaloupe;
O'er him, in the sullen night,
When the storm is in its might,
O'er him, in the fearful day,
When the lance and sabre play.
And the soldier's hour is knoll'd,
Stretch'd upon the sanguine mould:
Him on surge, or him on steed.
Still to spare, and still to speed'
Listen now!—'Tis vain, 'tis vain:
What can read the burning brain?
What can tell the thousandth part
Of the agonies of heart,
Secrets that the spirit keeps,
Thoughts on which it wakes and weeps;
To the mortal ear unknown,
Kept for night and heaven alone!
Old man, tell him of the tale
Written in this cheek so pale:
Wild and often has the tear,
Wash'd the rose that once was there;
Tell him of my heavy sigh,
Deep as from the lips that die,
Of my eyes' decaying beam,
Life departing like a stream.
Tell him of my weary day,
Bid him, Oh! do all but stay:
If he would not see my tomb,
Bid him come, and—swiftly come!