Once more, once more, Inarime,
       &nbsp I see thy purple hills!—once more
I hear the billows of the bay
       &nbsp Wash the white pebbles on thy shore.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,
       &nbsp Like a great galleon wrecked and cast
Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,
       &nbsp A mouldering landmark of the Past.

Upon its terrace-walk I see
       &nbsp A phantom gliding to and fro;
It is Colonna,—it is she
       &nbsp Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,
       &nbsp The type of perfect womanhood,
Whose life was love, the life of life,
       &nbsp That time and change and death withstood.

For death, that breaks the marriage band
       &nbsp In others, only closer pressed
The wedding-ring upon her hand
       &nbsp And closer locked and barred her breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
       &nbsp The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
       &nbsp Who nevermore would come again.
The shadows of the chestnut-trees,
       &nbsp The odor of the orange blooms,
The song of birds, and, more than these,
       &nbsp The silence of deserted rooms;

The respiration of the sea,
       &nbsp The soft caresses of the air,
All things in nature seemed to be
       &nbsp But ministers of her despair;

Till the o'erburdened heart, so long
       &nbsp Imprisoned in itself, found vent
And voice in one impassioned song
       &nbsp Of inconsolable lament.

Then as the sun, though hidden from sight,
       &nbsp Transmutes to gold the leaden mist,
Her life was interfused with light,
       &nbsp From realms that, though unseen, exist,

Inarime! Inarime!
       &nbsp Thy castle on the crags above
In dust shall crumble and decay,
       &nbsp But not the memory of her love.