But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee, As when I last beheld thee in thy pride— And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee— I curse the hour that sent me from your side! Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely gifted With mortal loveliness beyond compare? The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted— Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare! Yet sleep, my sister—I will not upbraid thee— Thou wert too sweet—too innocently dear; But he—the exulting demon who betrayed thee— He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here! Even now some happier fair one’s chains may bind him In dalliance sweet—but I’ll avenge thee well! Avenge thee?—Yes! a brother’s curse will find him, Though he should dive into the deeps of hell! I swear it, sister—as thou art forgiven— By all our wrongs—by all our severed ties, And by the blessedness of yon blue heaven, That gives its world of azure to mine eyes! By all my love—by every sacred duty A brother owes—and by yon heaving sod, Thine early grave—and by thy blighted beauty, Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God! I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother, And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now. Mary, look down!—behold thy wretched brother, And bless the vow!
Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking, And I for this had thought it nerved to-night, But every chord about my heart seems breaking, And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight. One look—one last long look to hill and meadow— To the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill, And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadow— Cease tears—and let these fond eyes look their fill! One look—and now farewell ye scenes that vary Beneath the twilight shades that round me flow! The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary— And she lies low!
Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yore Have spread on history’s page Italia’s wars, The sad mischances of intestine jars, Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar. Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er? Some solace for us canst thou not divine? Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour, And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind? Why else unveil the falsehood of our land, Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell? Why else didst thou with an unsparing hand Make bare the wounds whose angry scars will tell The lasting shame of ignomy’s brand, All petrified at history’s command?