ITALIAN HYMN TO THE MADONNA.
When the cypress-tree is weeping
With the bright rose o'er the tomb.
And the sunny orb is sleeping
On the mountain's brow of gloom.
Sweet mother at thy shrine
Our spirits melt in prayer,
Beneath the loveliness divine,
Which art has pictured there.
Or when the crystal star of Even
Is mirror'd in the silent sea,
And we can almost deem that heaven
Derives its calmest smile from thee.
Oh, virgin, if the lute
Invokes thy name in song,
Be thine the only voice that's mute,
Amid the tuneful throng.
When battle waves her falchion gory,
Over the dead on sea or land,
And one proud heart receives the glory,
Won by the blood of many a band,
If the hero's prayer to thee,
From his fading lips be given,
Awake his heart to ecstacy,
With brightest hopes of heaven.
Madonna! on whose bosom slumber'd,
The infant, Christ, with sunny brow,
The viewless hours have pass'd unnumber'd,
Since we adored thy shrine as now;
But not the gorgeous sky,
Nor the blue expansive sea,
To us such beauty could supply,
As that which hallow'd thee!
And when the scenes of life are faded
From our dim eyes like phantom-things,
When gentlest hearts with gloom are shaded,
And cease to thrill at Fancy's strings,
Thou, like the rainbow's form,
When summer skies are dark,
Shalt give thy light amid the storm,
And guide the Wanderer's bark!
G.R. CARTER.