Morning journal and courier., 1891-11-26
Aux Italiens.

THE FAyORITK POEM OF THE LATE 'oWES hERE-
 DITH''-LoRp LYrToN. At Paris it was, at the opera there;
 And she looked like queen in book, that With the Wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
 And the brooch ON her breast so bright. Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, The best, to my taste, is the 'Trovetore; And Mario can sooth with a tenor note
 The souls in Purgatory. The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low ''Non d scordar di me:" The Emperor there, in his box of state,
 Looked grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city gate,
 Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Fmpress too. had tear in her eye.
 You'd have said that her fancy had gone back For one moment, under the old blue sky.
 To the old glad life in Spain "ros Together, see ID my y bride % betrothsd and I; My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
 And hers on the stage hard by- And both were silent, and both were sad;
 Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm; With that regal, indolent air she had;
 So confident of her charm! have not doubt she was thinking then
 Of her former lord, good soul that he wasi Who died the richest and roundest of men, The Marquis Of Carabas. hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
 Through a needless eye he had not to pass. I wish him well, for the jointure given To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile was thinking of my first love,
 As had not been thinking oi aught for years, Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears. thought of the dress she wore last time,
 When we stood, heath tho cypress trees, to- In that lost land, in that soft cline,
 In the crimson evening weather: , ns rbot ,,,ucI;a drasS flor Ina ava hnt
 ALd her warm white neck in its golden chain And her full soft hair, just tied in kaot, ! And falling loose again. And the iasmin flower in her fair young breast; And the one bird singing alone to his nest i And the one star over the tower. thought of our little quarrels and strife, ! And the letter that brought me back my ring. 1 And it all see ned then, in the waste of life, 1 Such very little thing! i For thought of her grave below the hill,
 Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over; ;,u ! How could forgive her, and love her." i And swear, as I thought of her thus in that 1 hour,
 And of how after s old thnss %efs bsst Which she used to wear in her breast. It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet | It made me creep and it made me cold! Like the scent that steals from the crumbling
 Where mummy is half unrolled. And turned and looked. She was sitting there ! In dim box over the stage, and drest 1 In that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair
 And that jasmin in her breast! i was here and she was there,
 And the glittering horseshoe curved between; 1 From my bride -betrothed, with her raven hair,
 And her sumptuous, scornful mein To my early love, with her eyes downcast,
 And over her primrose face the shade CIn short from the Future back to the Past),
 There was but a step to ve made. To my early love from my future bride traversed the passage; and down at her side,
 was sitting, a moment more
 My thinking of her, or the music,s strain,
 Or something which never will be exprest, Had brought her back from the grave again,
 With the jasmin in her breast
 She is not dead, and she is not wed!
 But she loves me now, and she loved me then And the very first word that her sweet lips said
 My heart grew youthful again
 The Marchioness there, of Carabas,
 5e s5 Weay hs ana anS Me ies tSat
 She may marry whenever she will.
 But will marry my own first love, With her primrose face: for old things & are best The brooch ip my lady's breast The world is filled with folly and sin,
 And Love must cling where it can, say For beauty is easy enough to win;
 But one isn't loved every day.
 And think, in the lives of most women and men There's a moment when all would go smoot , If only the dead could find out when To come back and be forgiven. , But the smell of that jasmin fioweri And O that music! ana the way That voice rang out from the donjon tower
 Non ti scordar di me,
 Non u scordar di me!