Harriet Livermore [pp. 675-676]

1840.] Lines on the Sudden Death of a Very Dear Friend.-Harriet Livcrmore.
of his schemes, declared war against Florence.
The state was involved at the same time in other
conflicts; but the wisdom of Lorenzo guided the
ship of state safely through these troubled waters,
and peace came at last to bless himself and his
country.
Bernardo was now the friend of Lorenzo; and
well had hlie won that proud distinction. About
two years after the catastrophe we have describc ed,
Nannina became, with the consent of her brother,
the bride of Bernardo. But she never parted with
that ill-omened tapestry-on which she had impressed the features of him who was lost to her
forever. And the hours which she spent in solitude, with that melancholy memorial, were sacred
to remembrances of her loved Giuliano.
The priest Savanarola, who had pronounced that
strange prediction, in connection with this piece
of tapestry, was afterwards discovered to be a jugg l e r, and an impostor. Although he is said to have
a i d e d in correcting the corruptions of the Roma n
c h u r c h, and thus assisted in paving the wa y for the
reformation; and although he boldly, and perhaps
conscientiously denounced those occupations of the
l a i t y, (as in the case of Nannina's work,) of which
he did not approve. yet was it ascertained that he
pretended to sanctity, and to spiritual powers which
he did not possess,-and he met with the fate he
merited.
Bernardo Rucellai shared the fortunes of Lorenzo, the Magnificent; and was famed for his love
of letters, and of freedom. His reputation is identified with the history of his country.
I remember thy words of you thfill fire,
Breathing of hope and vague desire;
I remember the sparkle which lit thine eye,
When the thought and the hope and the vision high
Had troubled thy lip with the eager word.
Ah! where is the pile which thy great hope reared?
Fallen, far fallen:-the earthly pride
Which fate and the chances of tirae defied
Is gathered nowv to a lowly bed:
The garlands of earthly hope are dead,
And grief —Oh, grief! thou can'st not avail
To will his step from the shadowy vale.
In the halls of life, I may find no other,
To be unto me, as thou wast, brother;
And therefore it is, that I weep thee now,
And in the full ripeness of sorrow bow;
And therefore it is, that I feel alone,
In the crowded halls, whence thy step hath gone.
Lovi ng all men, by all bel ovedHow may I ponder thy fate unmoved?
How may I ponder with callous heart,
On what thou wast, and on what thou art?
Time hath new leaves for the forest tree,
But time may not lessen my grief for thee.
Green be the grave of t bthy youth, my friend;
Green be the boughs that above it bend;
Gentle the near waves' haunting measuresEarth on the hills of life h-ath treasures;
But never the fear unto death she gave,
Of him who hath passed to his early grave.
Those of the readers of the Messenger, and
others, who listened some years since to the public
lectures of Miss Harriet Livermore, in which she
enlarged upon the wrongs of the "poor Indian,"
and dwelt much upon the near approach of the
Millenium, will doubtless be gratified to learn her
whereabouts. Whatever may be the opinion of
individuals as to the propriety, or utility of the
course of life she has adopted, there can be but one,
as to the sincerity and purity of the motives by
which she is governed, and that when she went out
from the midst of her own people, a wayfarer and
a pilgffrim in a strange land, she went in obedience
to what she believed to be the voice of God; nor
can we fail to admire the harmless enthusiasm, and
devotion with which, amid sickliness and discouragements of every kind, she has resigned herself
to what she regards the imperious call of duty and
religion.
Eight years ago she lectured in our own City
of Richmond, since wvhich time she has visited
many of the tribes of our Western Indians, and at
one time proposed to spend the remainder of her
days with the red people in the vicinity of Fort
Leavenworth, but her intentions were frustrated,
she says, by the mechinations of the Commander,
and the Indi,an Agent, who wished to dislodge
How sleeps m y friend in his place of rest!
The greenest grass is upon his breast,
And the willow, and white armed sycamore,
Above him wave, and his fate deplore
With wailing words, as the gentlest winds
Come moaning by; and a brooklet finds
Most musical way, through a glen of grass
For its waters that murmur as they pass.
My friend! my friend! I remember well
Of the times that are past; the hours I tell
Since the sumnmer-day when I rode with theeAs merry of mood as man may be,Over the sand and through the wood,
Toe nd fi the fringed brink of the silvery flood,
Wv'hich fleeter than Rhone, and fairer than Rhine,
Had a constant joy for thy heart and mine.
I remember thy dreams of a coming day,
When thy toil should gather around thy way
The prizes of earth, the brilliant things,
Which beautiful seem when the heart hath wings,
And life is young, and the spirit bold,
And the veins of the dreamer have not grown cold.
675
L. L.
IIARRIET LIVERMORE.
-1
LINES
ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF A VERY DEAR FRIEND.