Properzia Rossi

Tell me no more, no more

Of my soul's lofty gifts! Are they not vain

To quench its haunting thirst for happiness?

Have I not lov'd, and striven, and fail'd to bind

One true heart unto me, whereon my own

Might find a resting-place, a home for all

Its burden of affections? I depart,

Unknown, tho' Fame goes with me; I must leave

The earth unknown. Yet it may be that death

Shall give my name a power to win such tears

As would have made life precious.

I.

ONE dream of passion and of beauty more!

And in its bright fulfillment let me pour

My soul away! Let earth retain a trace

Of that which lit my being, tho' its race

Might have been loftier far. Yet one more dream!

From my deep spirit one victorious gleam  

Ere I depart! For thee alone, for thee!

May this last work, this farewell triumph be,

Thou, lov'd so vainly! I would leave enshrined

Something immortal of my heart and mind,

That yet may speak to thee when I am gone,

Shaking thine inmost bosom with a tone

Of lost affection; something that may prove

What she hath been, whose melancholy love

On 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 agony

Of this vain tenderness my spirit, wake!

Ev'n for thy sorrowful affection's sake,

Live! in thy work breathe out! that he may yet

Feeling sad mastery there, perchance regret

Thine unrequited gift.  

II.

             It comes, the power

Within me born, flows back; my fruitless dower

That could not win me love. Yet once again

I greet it proudly, with its rushing train

Of glorious images: they throng they press

A sudden joy lights up my loneliness,

I shall not perish all!

             The bright work grows

Beneath my hand, unfolding, as a rose,

Leaf after leaf, to beauty; line by line,

I fix my thought, heart, soul, to burn, to shine,

Thro' the pale marble's veins. It grows and now

I give my own life's history to thy brow,

Forsaken Ariadne! thou shalt wear

My form, my lineaments; but oh! more fair,

Touched into lovelier being by the glow

 Which in me dwells, as by the summer-light

All things are glorified. From thee my wo

 Shall 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 throw

Into thy frame a voice, a sweet, and low,

And thrilling voice of song! when he came nigh,

To send the passion of its melody

Thro' his pierced bosom on its tones to bear

My life's deep feeling as the southern air

Wafts the faint myrtle's breath, to rise, to swell,

To sink away in accents of farewell,

Winning but one, one gush of tears, whose flow

Surely my parted spirit yet might know,

If love be strong as death!  

III.

            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 given

Birth to creations of far nobler thought,

 I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven,

Things not of such as die! But I have been

Too much alone; a heart, whereon to lean,

With all these deep affections that o'erflow

My aching soul, and find no shore below,

An eye to be my star; a voice to bring

Hope 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 chain,

Are ever but as some wild fitful song,

Rising triumphantly, to die ere long

In dirge-like echoes.  

IV.

             Yet the world will see

Little of this, my parting work, in thee,

 Thou shalt have fame! Oh, mockery! give the reed

From storms a shelter, give the drooping vine

Something round which its tendrils may entwine,

 Give the parch'd flower a rain-drop, and the meed

Of love's kind words to woman! Worthless fame!

That in his bosom wins not for my name

Th' 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; tho' still thy sky

Be blue as then, my glorious Italy!

And tho' the music, whose rich breathings fill

Thine air with soul, be wandering past me still,

And tho' the mantle of thy sunlight streams

Unchang'd on forms instinct with poet-dreams;

Never, oh! never more! Where'er I move,

The shadow of this broken-hearted love

Is on me and around! Too well they know,

 Whose life is all within, too soon and well,

When there the blight hath settled; but I go

 Under 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 cast

Unvalued wealth, who know'st not what was given

In that devotedness, the sad, and deep,

And unrepaid farewell! If I could weep

Once, only once, belov'd one! on thy breast,

Pouring my heart forth ere I sink to rest!

But that were happiness, and unto me

Earth's gift is fame. Yet I was form'd to be

So 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 song

Swept ev'n as part of our sweet air along,

To listen silently; with thee to gaze

On 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 fame

 A glory for thy brow! Dreams, dreams! the fire

Burns faint within me. Yet I leave my name?

 As a deep thrill may linger on the lyre

When its full chords are hush'd?awhile to live,

And one day haply in thy heart revive

Sad 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 lov'd me well!

"

Properzia Rossi, a celebrated female sculptor of Bologna, possessed also of talents for poetry and music, died in consequence of an unrequited attachment. A painting, by Ducis, represents her showing her last work, a basso-relievo of Ariadne, to a Roman Knight, the object of her affection, who regards it with indifference.