C 2* ] [JAN. 



LOVE'S LAST MEETING: 



L Modernized from an old Manuscript, found among the Records of the Medical 

 School at Bologna.] 



THE days of my youth ! the days of my youth ! how deeply do your 

 recollections dwell within my soul ! how vividly does memory recall 

 you, and the deeds to which you gave rise I your bright hopes, your 

 burning wishes, your blight of heart, your absolute despair ! He who 

 receives a stunning blow early in life, will probably, through physical 

 strength, rise, after a time, from under it ; and, if he be thrown into 

 full collision with the world, the wound will heal over, though, from time 

 to time, the scar which it leaves will ache. In his breast there will be 

 the reverse of the oasis of the desert ; for, however the larger portion 

 of the soul may bloom to what extent soever it may be fertile there 

 will be always one spot of barren and burning waste, to contrast with 

 and to check the flowering meads around it. 



Oh, Florence I thou whited sepulchre of outward beauty thou in- 

 ward charnel-house of all my happiness of my soul's hopes ! how bit- 

 terly do I hate what others love so much thy streets of palaces, and 

 thy flowing Arno ! With what a leaden heart have I looked down, from 

 thy surrounding amphitheatre of hills, upon thy fair villas, glittering 

 among the dusky olives ; and thy noble church, rising like a crown, to 

 complete this scene of queenly beauty I What, indeed, is the loveliness 

 of a natural object, if the associations connected with it be sad ? If the 

 tidings be mournful, of what avail is the speaker's voice ? 



When I went again to Florence, after long years, it was recalling 

 into new life the great, the one misfortune of my youth. My heart beat 

 against my side with the tumultuous throb of re-awakened agony ; I felt 

 once more the desolation of a bruised spirit. Alas ! how strong are the 

 impressions of local memory ! A sick shudder came over me as I passed 

 the house where I 



Beauty beamed upon her brow Love flashed from her eyes, and 

 mantled on her glowing lips. The full confidence and utter unreserve 

 of young affection, gave to her the dignity of their own singleness and 

 simplicity. What, indeed, is more holy than female love in its first force 

 and purity before the world has chilled it, or repetition sullied the 

 exquisite bloom of its unity and abandonment ! It is one of the high- 

 est and most intense of the mysteries of hnman nature one of the 

 most beautiful of its phenomena the most engrossing of its impulses ! 

 The sophisticated may sneer at its simple feelings the corrupt may mis- 

 take its purity for coldness ; but that very simplicity is the cause, at 

 once, and the effect of its strength and condensation : the very purity 

 of the flame betokens its intense heat I 



How beautiful she was I Beauty ! oh, beauty ! which makest the 



senses drunk, and the spirits reel under thy influence which, like the 

 wild honey of the ancient story, art delicious to the taste, but madden- 

 ing to the brain I how thy force and thy sweetness, are they not 

 increased when we behold thee in the woman of our soul's love I Here 

 is her picture I How lovely are their features! their fine outline 

 their rich development their placid expression I How the eye feasts 

 upon them ! how the soul is fed by the deep, calm thoughts which that 

 countenance exhales ! Yet does not this treasured image more excel 

 the most ill-favoured of the daughters of Eve, than it falls short of the 



