Sad and repentant of my sins, I start
To think how wandering, empty, light, and low
My days have been; to see, with shame and woe,
My life, in love's vain service spent, depart.
To thee, my God, who softenest every heart,-
Who meltest even the frozen arctic snow,——
Who smoothest all things rugged here below,
For them, who burn to choose the holier part,-
I turn, and pray thee to extend thy grace
To save me from the sea of sin, whence I
Alone should vainly strive to win the strand.
For us, thou didst descend and leave the sky,
To ransom, in thy mercy, all our race;
Sweet Lord, then let not me despairing die.
Michel Agnolo Buonarotti, born at Florence, died in Rome in 1564, eighty-nine years of age, pre-eminent, during his long life, as a painter, sculptor, architect, and civil engineer. The church of St Peter's in Rome, the sepulchral monument of Julius II., and the paintings of the Sistine chapel are the great monuments of his extraordinary genius. But he also possessed a natural turn for verse; and if he had sedulously applied himself to its cultivation, might have become as eminent in poetry as he was in the sister His poems consist chiefly of sonnets, many of a devotional, and many others of an amatory character, the best of which latter class are addressed to the deservedly famous Vittoria Colonna.
Mine eyes beheld no common mortal sight,
While, gazing on the placid beams of thine,
I felt my spirit, in their ray divine,
Kindling to spread her wings for heavenly flight,
And seek repose in realms of kindred light:
No frail and earthly charms my soul confine;
She soars to view in steadier glory shine
The "ideal form" of beauty infinite.
The sage will never hope for lasting joys
In perishable clay, nor rashly bind
His love to that, which time and death control.
Unbridled will, not love, the soul destroys;
For here true love exalts the immortal mind,
And higher yet in heaven 't will raise the soul.
THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.*
I WOULD not always reason.
Wearies us with its never-varying lines,
And we grow melancholy. I would make
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit
Patiently by the way-side, while I traced
The mazes of the pleasant wilderness
Around me. She should be my counsellor,
But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs
Impulses from a deeper source than hers,
And there are motions in the mind of man
That she must look upon with awe. I bow
Reverently to her dictates, but not less
Hold to the fair illusions of old time-
Illusions that shed brightness over life,
And glory over nature. Look even now
Where two bright planets in the twilight meet
Upon the saffron heaven,-the imperial star
Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn
Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe
Awhile that they are met for ends of good
Amid the evening glory, to confer
Of men and their affairs, and to shed down
Kind influences. Lo, their orbs burn more bright
And shake out softer fires! The great earth feels
The gladness and the quiet of the time.
Meekly the mighty river, that infolds
This mighty city, smooths his front, and far
Glitters and burns even to the rocky base
Of the dark heights that bound him to the west;
And a deep murmur from the many streets
Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence
Dark and sad thoughts awhile-there 's time for them
Hereafter on the morrow we will meet
With melancholy looks to tell our griefs
And make each other wretched; this calm hour,
This balmy, blessed evening we will give
*This conjunction was said in the common calendars to take place on the 2d of August last. It has been affirmed, that this was a mistake; but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes.
To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days,
Born of the meeting of those glorious stars.
Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared The land with dread of famine.
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits.
The dog-star shall shine harmless; genial days
Shall softly glide away into the keen
And wholesome cold of winter; he that fears
The pestilence shall gaze on these pure beams,
And breathe with confidence the quiet air.
Emblems of Power and Beauty! well may they
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw
Towards the great Pacific, marking out
The path of empire. Thus, in our own land,
Ere long the better Genius of our race,
Having encompassed earth and tamed its tribes,
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west,
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back
On realms made happy.
Light the nuptial torch,
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them
That wed this evening!—a long life of love,
And blooming sons and daughters! Happy they
Born at this hour,-for they shall see an age
Whiter and holier than the past, and go
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts
And shudder at the butcheries of war,
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained
Thy rivers; deep enough thy chains have worn
Their links into thy flesh; the sacrifice
Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes,
And reverend priests, has expiated all
Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights
There is an omen of good days for thee.
Thou shalt arise from 'midst the dust and sit
Again among the nations. Thine own arm
Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine
The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings,—
Despot with despot battling for a throne,-
And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms,
Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall
Upon each other, and in all their bounds
The wailing of the childless shall not cease.
Thine is a war for liberty, and thou
Must fight it single-handed. The old world
Looks coldly on the murders of thy race,
And leaves thee to the struggle; and the new,-
I fear me thou could'st tell a shameful tale
Of fraud and lust of gain,-thy treasury drained
And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs
Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand,
And God and thy good sword shall yet work out
For thee a terrible deliverance.
EXTRACT FROM A MANUSCRIPT DRAMA.
FAIR MOON! beneath whose blessed light all things
Grow pale and beautiful! beneath whose beams
Yon gloomy woods are tinged so softly bright,
In borrowed beauty waving their tall tops!
Thine, too, is borrowed; and a brighter orb
Sees in thy peaceful face his own rich beams
Reflected with a milder radiance back;
Even as a beauteous mother, gazing down,
Marks her own features in her infant's face!
And he, whose living light gives thee thy rays,
Is but an image of an unseen God!
"T is strange, but not more strange than beautiful, How all things breathe. But soft; beneath yon trees Methinks a shadowy form steals on, and now,
Emerging in the light, comes hitherward,
Silent and slow. I know thee now, my Queen!
Is there no slumber on thy couch, my friend? Why should it shun those lids that never knew The tears of midnight grief? So young and glad As thou, why should'st thou quit thy dreams of joy To wander o'er the dew-damp grass alone?
It is not late. Look where the western sky
Retains as yet a long, bright, golden stripe,
The footsteps of departed day. "T were wrong
To close one's eyes when such a beauteous world
Lays forth her prodigality of charms;
Fair, at all times, but fairest surely now.
Breathes there not at this hour a sweeter balm
Wherever the winds go? Methinks the flowers
Send up their richest odours when the dew,
The heavy summer dew, weighs down their heads,
And stars are lighting up a paler day,
And fresher breezes lift their leaves! so cool!
So sweet! bearing the tale which one wild flower
Tells, in its gladness, to another! Hark!
Heard you that note? It was the prelude light
To such a wild and soul-beguiling strain,
As well may serenade the moon and stars
On such a night! It was the nightingale,
Whose little heart is music, sending forth
Her first faint symphony. But listen now!-
Oh, lady! surely now the blest should wake
To praise the hand which blesses them, and those
Who keep Grief's vigils should come forth to gaze,
Το pray, and be consoled!
There is a gloom, which even day's bright beams
Can never dissipate! Moonlight, and stars,
And dewy flowers, and those unearthly strains
Of music too, all seem to thee most sweet;
Why should they not? thy careless soul is free
To watch and worship them; to mark apart
Each separate beauty, and to dwell on all
Till it is filled and running o'er with joy
And admiration. The deep sense of beauty,
And bliss, is exquisite in thy young heart;
It may be blunted yet,-as mine hath been.
For I was one like thee. But, oh! the eyes,
Dim with such griefs as mine, behold no more
Aught glad or beautiful,-the memory
Of sorrow darkens all they rest upon.
Kind friend! my grief I know must weary you.
Leave me, dear Una!
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