Yet in one spot a spirit keeps
His mansion, like a red-rose stain;
And, when lovers' ghosts complain,
Blushes like a new-born flower,
Or as some bright dream of pain
Dawneth through the darkest hour.
Once, — but many a thought hath fled
Since the time whereof I speak,
Once, the sleeping lady bred
Beauty in her burning cheek,
And the lovely morn did break
Through the azure of her eyes,
And her heart was warm and meek,
And her hope was in the skies.
But the lady loved at last,
And the passion pained her soul,
And her hope away was cast
Far beyond her own control;
And the clouded thoughts that roll
Through the midnight of the mind
O'er her eyes of azure stole,
Till they grew deject and blind.
He to whom her heart was given,
When May-music was in tune,
Dared forsake that amorous heaven,
Changed and careless soon!-
O, what is all beneath the moon
When his heart will answer not!
What are all the dreams of noon
With our love forgot!
Heedless of the world she went,
Sorrow's daughter, meek and loue,
Till some spirit downwards bent
And struck her to this sleep of stone.
Look! Did old Pygmalion
Sculpture thus, or more prevail,
When he drew the living tone
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture, — in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honored with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled, overflowed it;
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost, — stealing, unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees, discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down, admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a maid a-Maying.
The sun was down, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approached
The hour for stir and village gossip there,
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and, lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared,
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.
At length there came the loveliest of them all,
Her little brother dancing down before her;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever,
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink;
And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tiptoe,
Looked down upon him with a sister's smile,
Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue.
Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endowed them with eternal youth;
And they had evermore lived undivided,
Winning all hearts, of all thy works the fairest !
WRITTEN AT MOLA DI GAETA, NEAR THE RUINS OF CICERO'S
E wandered through bright climes, and drank the
beams
Of southern suns: Elysian scenes we viewed,
Such as we picture oft in those day-dreams
That haunt the fancy in her wildest mood.
Upon the sea-beat vestiges we stood,
Where Cicero dwelt, and watched the latest gleams
Of rosy light steal o'er the azure flood;
And memory conjured up most glowing themes,
Filling the expanded heart, till it forgot
Its own peculiar grief! O, if the dead
Yet haunt our earth, around this hallowed spot,
Hovers sweet Tully's spirit, since it fled
The Roman Forum, - Forum now no more!
Though cold and silent be the sands we tread,
Still burns the "eloquent air," and to the shore
There rolls no wave, and through the orange shade
There sighs no breath, which doth not speak of him,
The 'Father of his Country": and though dim
Her day of empire, and her laurel crown
Torn and defaced, and soiled with blood and tears,
And her imperial eagles trampled down,
Still with a queenlike grace, Italia wears
Her garland of bright names,- her coronal of stars, (Radiant memorials of departed worth!)
That shed a glory round her pensive brow,
And make her still the worship of the earth.
THE winding rocks a spacious harbor frame,
That from the great Alcides takes its name: Fenced to the west, and to the north it lies; But when the winds in southern quarters rise, Ships, from their anchors torn, become their sport, And sudden tempests rage within the port.
Lucan. Tr. Joseph Addison.
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'Tis by some Believed to be his master-work who looked
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel wall,
As though the day were come, were come and past,
Drew the Last Judgment. But the wisest err.
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life,
For life is surely there and visible change,
Life such as none could of himself impart
(They who behold it go not as they came,
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