Properzia Rossi

“Tell me no more, no moreOf my soul’s lofty gifts! Are they not vainTo quench its haunting thirst for happiness?Have I not loved, and striven, and fail’d to bindOne true heart unto me, whereon my ownMight find a resting-place, a home for allIts burden of affections? I depart,Unknown, though Fame goes with me; I must leaveThe earth unknown. Yet it may be that deathShall give my name a power to win such tearsAs would have made life precious.”

One dream of passion and of beauty more!And in its bright fulfilment let me pourMy soul away! Let earth retain a traceOf that which lit my being, though its raceMight have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!From my deep spirit one victorious gleamEre I depart! For thee alone, for thee!May this last work, this farewell triumph be--Thou, loved so vainly! I would leave enshrinedSomething immortal of my heart and mind,That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,Shaking thine inmost bosom with a toneOf lost affection,--something that may proveWhat she hath been, whose melancholy loveOn thee was lavish’d; silent pang and tear,And fervent song that gush’d when none were near,And dream by night, and weary thought by day,Stealing the brightness from her life away--While thou----Awake! not yet within me die!Under the burden and the agonyOf this vain tenderness--my spirit, wake!Even for thy sorrowful affection’s sake,Live! in thy work breathe out!--that he may yet,Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regretThine unrequited gift.

It comes! the powerWithin me born flows back--my fruitless dowerThat could not win me love. Yet once againI greet it proudly, with its rushing trainOf glorious images: they throng--they press--A sudden joy lights up my loneliness--I shall not perish all!The bright work growsBeneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,Leaf after leaf, to beauty--line by line,Through the pale marble’s veins. It grows!--and nowI fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine:I give my own life’s history to thy brow,Forsaken Ariadne!--thou shalt wearMy form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,Touch’d into lovelier being by the glowWhich in me dwells, as by the summer lightAll things are glorified. From thee my woeShall yet look beautiful to meet his sight,When I am pass’d away. Thou art the mould,Wherein I pour the fervent thoughts, th’ untold,The self-consuming! Speak to him of me,Thou, the deserted by the lonely sea,With the soft sadness of thine earnest eye--Speak to him, lorn one! deeply, mournfully,Of all my love and grief! Oh! could I throwInto thy frame a voice--a sweet, and low,And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,To send the passion of its melodyThrough his pierced bosom--on its tones to bearMy life’s deep feeling, as the southern airWafts the faint myrtle’s breath--to rise, to swell,To sink away in accents of farewell,Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flowSurely my parted spirit yet might know,If love be strong as death!

Now fair thou art,Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart!Yet all the vision that within me wrought,I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have givenBirth to creations of far nobler thought;I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,Things not of such as die! But I have beenToo much alone! A heart whereon to lean,With all these deep affections that o’erflowMy aching soul, and find no shore below;An eye to be my star; a voice to bringHope o’er my path like sounds that breathe of spring?These are denied me--dreamt of still in vain.Therefore my brief aspirings from the chainAre ever but as some wild fitful song,Rising triumphantly, to die ere longIn dirge-like echoes.

Yet the world will seeLittle of this, my parting work! in thee.Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reedFrom storms a shelter--give the drooping vineSomething round which its tendrils may entwine--Give the parch’d flower a rain-drop, and the meedOf love’s kind words to woman! Worthless fame!That in his bosom wins not for my nameTh’ abiding place it ask’d! Yet how my heart,In its own fairy world of song and art,Once beat for praise! Are those high longings o’er?That which I have been can I be no more?Never! oh, never more! though still thy skyBe blue as then, my glorious Italy!And though the music, whose rich breathings fillThine air with soul, be wandering past me still;And though the mantle of thy sunlight streamsUnchanged on forms, instinct with poet-dreams.Never! oh, never more! Where’er I move,The shadow of this broken-hearted loveIs on me and around! Too well they knowWhose life is all within, too soon and well,When there the blight hath settled! But I goUnder the silent wings of peace to dwell;From the slow wasting, from the lonely pain,The inward burning of those words--“in vain,”Sear’d on the heart--I go. ’Twill soon be past!Sunshine and song, and bright Italian heaven,And thou, oh! thou, on whom my spirit castUnvalued wealth--who know’st not what was givenIn that devotedness--the sad, and deep,And unrepaid--farewell! If I could weepOnce, only once, beloved one! on thy breast,Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!But that were happiness!--and unto meEarth’s gift is fame. Yet I was form’d to beSo richly bless’d! With thee to watch the sky,Speaking not, feeling but that thou wert nigh;With thee to listen, while the tones of songSwept even as part of our sweet air along--To listen silently; with thee to gazeOn forms, the deified of olden days--This had been joy enough; and hour by hour,From its glad well-springs drinking life and power,How had my spirit soar’d, and made its fameA glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams!--The fireBurns faint within me. Yet I leave my name--As a deep thrill may linger on the lyreWhen its full chords are hush’d--awhile to live,And one day haply in thy heart reviveSad thoughts of me. I leave it, with a sound,A spell o’er memory, mournfully profound;I leave it, on my country’s air to dwell--Say proudly yet--“’Twas hers who loved me well!”