For the New Mirror. THE GIPSY'S STAR. The following lines were occasioned by reading a Poem supposed to have been written by a long absent friend. It may be I am wrong In the strange fancy that some lines I read, Since last we parted!-I, to dream in vain, Time has not yet effaced The memory of that dream!-though o'er the past Dense shadows and dark changes have been cast, And hopes have run to waste, Which bloomed at first, luxuriant, bright and free, Planted and nurtured and sustained by thee. Hast thou forgotten all, All the fresh thoughts of youth ?-Have they been hurl'd Till they are past recall? Then have I strung my lyre with fruitless care, To breathe its numbers on the desert air. Voiceless and echoless Have been the years between us, from the hour Unnumbered links in memory's chain are wound If thou 'gainst nature's fickleness shouldst strive, Man's thoughts upon the world's wild waves are cast, Then let me bid farewell To the vain hopes which haunt my memory!Long crushed within my heart, why should they be A theme on which to dwell? Let them pass on and mingle with the dreams Which vanish from the mind with morning beams. Life once was bright to me! Thou knowest how bright its scenes when first we met!- I need not tell to thee. Unwelcome were the tale of after years, The history of the faith washed out in tears. "Tis done-I ask thee not For sympathy or interest in the past; I ask thee not if clouds have ne'er o'ercast There's naught for us in common on life's stage, But ah, if e'er again Our paths should meet, I would the mystery For I have sought to read it till my mind Yet it were idle now To wish the past unravelled-'tis too late! Of joyous hope and fancy's dreams of truth Oh, they but mocked my heart!- And now my lay is o'er My harp its farewell numbers breathes to thee- A thought or memory of me may dwell, For time has made us strangers-fare thee well! A TALE OF THE ABRUZZO. CHAPTER I. THE hot south-east wind had prevailed all day, and cast gloom and languor over the lovely valley of Salmona-a spot worthy of having given birth to the amiable Naso; that immortal poet, whose glowing imagination has so truly painted those "charming agonies of love, whose misery delights." It was near to that spot still known to the peasantry as La Bottega d'Ovidio, that the young Donna Constanza stayed her eager palfrey to let him drink of the limpid stream of Gli Fonte d'Amore. Notwithstanding the sickening oppression of the malaria, now fast pervading the heated breeze, the flush of hope and happiness sat upon the maiden's brow, and the smile of youthful joy played around her pouting lips. While her horse sucked up the cooling draught, a voice from beneath called out in low but musical tones, "Gentil' Donna," two several times before she could recognise whence it proceeded. "Gentil' Donna," said the voice, a third time, "fling a ducat on the margin of Gli Fonte d'Amore, and I'll read you your fortune." The lady now discerned the speaker where he lay stretched at full length beneath the thick olives that shaded one side of the spring. "This is no hour to have fortune read," replied the donna; "but here's a gold zechino for thy good wishes, for truly never did I need fortune more. Here, Andreas, rein up thy steed, and bear the coin to him." "Touch it not Messer Andreas," sharply cried the first speaker, addressing the waiting servitor; "'twill blister thy fingers else." Andreas instinctively started from the proffered gold; the speaker laughed, and in a softened tone continued:"Fling it thou upon the flowery turf, made ever verdant by the waters of Gli Fonte d'Amore: fling it freely down, and thy love, lady, shall never know cross again." A deep suffusion passed over the cheek of Constanza. "The baron is in sight, donna," announced Andreas. "Then let us ride on," she replied, as, with a look that seemed to say, 'I would hear more if occasion suited,' she flung the coin towards the prophet; and, giving her spirited palfrey the rein, she galloped lightly on towards the cas tello. "Your fortune is read, molto beato, and may your star never shine less brightly than at this hour," cried the man, springing up, and displaying the well-known equipment of the Zingaro-one of a race, half-bandit, half-gipsy, who were, at this period, thickly located about the wild mountain-track lying between Isernia and Popoli, and extending from the lake of Celano across the Maronne and Matesse. In his hand he bore a staff full nine feet long,—this was his only apparent weapon; from his neck hung a rudelyformed guitar, a long hair-net constrained his luxuriant black locks, and a large leafed hat lay back upon his shoulders, sustained by a narrow leather strap passed across his forehead. His nether man was clad in loose breeches of dark-yellow cotton, drawn tight below the knee; a greaveshaped leathern gaiter covered his leg nearly to the ankle, where it was met by the lacing of the rude sandal, which barely protected the sole of the foot. A short closely-fitted jerkin of deer-skin, and a very large capa of coarse black cloth, completed the wardrobe of the very picturesque. looking youth, who, leaning on his staff, watched the receding figure of the beautiful Constanza. There was a ESTELLE."yellowish tint in his complexion which would have given a 5-20-47 3 V. THE NEW MIRROR. sickly character to the countenance, but that it was more than counteracted by the lustrous brightness of his large black eyes, the redness of his lips, and a set of teeth which, from their strength and whiteness, seemed formed for eternity. In figure he was about the middle height; his limbs light and long, denoting both strength and elasticity. As the cortege of the baron drew near, the youth thus minutely described moved round the spring, and having picked from the turf the piece of gold, rapidly darted away; and by the aid of his pole readily clearing the many streams which intersected the meadow, made for the olive-grove, which covered one side of the hill leading to the castello. This was the day of the festival of the patron-saint of the monastery of the Annunziata, and in despite of the sirocco, the Baron de Mirialva had attended the ceremony in company with his niece. They had left the castle at daybreak, and were now returning from the monastery accompanied by some of the neighboring nobility. It was on this day, in the church of the Annunziata, Constanza had recovered the smiles stolen from her brow, ever since the hour her uncle first announced the feud which separated her from Luigi Conradini, her long-affianced and heart-chosen lord. It was from the hand of a mendicant palmer to whom she tendered alms, in the gloomy aisles of the church, she received the electric touch which imparted new life to her heart. It was from beneath that pilgrim's hood the glances shot which had kindled anew the fire of joy in her eyes; and it was to read the letter of love, hidden next her beating heart, whose lines, indeed, were to decide her fate, that she now spurred homeward so freely, heedless of the heat of sun or air. The same day was far advanced, when the gipsy stood close before the noble gate of the Castell de Mirialva, and while tuning his guitar, the wanderer's constant recommendation, disturbed the rest of the pampered porter who sat within its shade. "Peace, and quit thy thrumming, rogue; thou canst not expect to steal aught here," growled the unmusical servitor; "what wouldst thou?" 'But, charity, good Signor Castellan!" “Ay, ay, I am charitable to the real necessitoso, even to overflowing, and give abundantly to the worthy fathers of San Dominico. The convent of Monte Garigliano is hardly a league lower down; and if thou usest lightly those long legs of thine thou mayst yet cross the torrent before the mountain-waters find their way there. The holy fathers are excellent judges of the proper objects of compassion; go, tinkle thy guitar at their gate, and see if thy Zingaro ditties may win thee straw and a supper. Ho, ho-Pah!|| that puff of malaria was the very breath of Satan; the true blast of the sirocco-away, rogue! Off from the portal, and let me close out thy ill-breathing, and thy master, the Devil's together-it will not harm thee, 'tis thy native air; so good night, poveretto." "The malaria be your only breathing, son of a bandog, until your bloated form be as black and as foul as the heart within it!" muttered the repulsed suppliant, as he turned from the closely-barred portal of the castello, and fixed his eyes upon the mighty masses of cloud now fast descending on every side, obscuring the close of day and 3 creating a premature night, by colouring every object with their sickly saffron hue, only contrasted by the fiery glare of the vivid lightning, shot at intervals from their laden bosoms. A few heavy raindrops, splashing upon the hard and thirsty soil, gave note of the coming storm, and promised a speedy termination to the sirocco that had blown all day. Though it was late, the birds, by a sudden quiek and lively note, seemed to offer up thanks to the God of Nature for the relief about to be afforded them. The leaves of the olive, too, emitted a gentle rustling sound, as if eager to court the coming gale, that with cool breath began already to puff back the baleful blast, under whose withering influence all beneath the sky had seemed to droop and sicken. "Twill be a heavy fall, and soon too," muttered the gipsy, as, after a moment's observation of the heavens, he leaned upon his staff, and glanced about him; "and not a chance of shelter, except I crawl like a hound under some projection of these walls, upon which my curse should light, but that I watched the fair form of her who flung me this zechino, gallop lightly beneath them. Gold, humph! if I were in a city now this would win me supper and shelter from Christian or pagan; but of what use is it upon the mountain? A thousand such pieces would not bribe yon overladen cloud to bear its waters a league farther, and leave me in a dry skin. No! man alone knows its influence, and the ring of this tiny bit of yellow metal would thrill even to the heart of the churl who now bars me in the storm,-would even charm him to change hands and touch cup with the Zingaro. Sformato! if ever we meet on the mountain I'll read thee a true fortune; ay, and see to its fulfilment too, even as near to the end of thy life as may well be with safety." The glance that accompanied this promise fully vouched for the sincerity of the speaker, who now pulled over his brows the large-leafed hat which had hitherto lain upon his shoulders, drew the hanging part of his hair-net tightly under his throat, and, folding his coarse capa closely about his person, seemed fully prepared to abide the pitiless pelting of the coming maestro, as with a quick and stealthy pace he turned the leeward angle of the casa. For the New Mirror. THE CHINA PITCHER. "In a word, then-shall I have that story of the ChinaPitcher, or not?" China, or Chaney, my good sir-which is it?" "A plague on your niceties of pronunciation! Everybody about here says China, and why shouldn't we?" "But the dictionaries, my good sir-the dictionaries!" "That for the dictionaries!" "Mercy on us! Did you ever!" The Editor of the NEW MIRROR snapping his fingers at a dictionary! "Nonsense. You know me. I am in earnest. Shall I have the story, or shall I not? And in season, too, for the first number?" "And out of my own mouth, hey?" "Certainly to be sure-out of your own mouth, of course; what would a story be good for, unless founded upon fact, and taken down, word for word, from the mouth of somebody, no matter whom, to give it a flavour? At a word, then, what say you—yes or no?" "With all my heart, since you are so much in earnest, and have so little time to spare; but mind-no blabbing ; I wouldn't have the names get abroad, nor the parties themselves laughed at-instead of the story-for ten times the price you are willing to pay." |