And harmonies unbreathed from mortal mould,
The senses in immortal rapture thrill.
But who shall chain him? Let them chain the morn
Flooding the gates of heaven with orient rose,
Or bid the storm its dragon pinion close!
Lightly by Love the sisters' bonds are worn:
He glances round a look of silent scorn;
Still feigns to be their slave; but woe, wild woe
Is lurking for them in that unbent bow :
Well for their hearts he ne'er from sleep were torn!
Even while they gaze, a crown of brilliant light,
As if a thousand living jewels flamed
Around his brow, the little king proclaimed :
Spread in the air two quivering pinions white.
They shriek; away they sweep in sudden flight;
They hear the arrow from his bow-string clang;
Each in her bosom feels the venomed pang:
The God of hearts has smote them in his might !
Weeping the hour they caught that fatal prize,
Each feels within her soul a deathless fire;
Sad hopes, glad sorrows, loving hates, fond ire,
Anguish in smiles, and joy in lonely sighs;
A cloud eternal dims the amber skies;
The earth is but a garden of despair!
They kneel; the little Tyrant spurns their prayer, Waves his white wings, and darts amid the skies.
An episode-group in a monumental work by Canova.
WEARY, wasted, wan, and old,-
Like a bard whose tale is told,-
Like a harp whose chords are broken,
Music dead, and message spoken;
To whose shell alone belongs
The memory of its former songs,—
Save, at times, a low reply,
When the solemn breezes sigh;
And the touch of viewless wings
Brushes through its shivered strings,
Bringing to the aged ear
Voices it has pined to hear,
Many a night, and many a day,
From the grave-land, far away!
Wasted, weary, old and wan,
He is journeying feebly on;
As a pilgrim from afar,
Guided by the eastern star,
Many a smiling region past,
Entered on the waste at last,
Treads the last and desert stage
Of his weary pilgrimage!—
Faith is as that star to him,
Brighter as all else grows dim;
While its beauty leads him home,
Through the temple, to the tomb !
And a form is by his side,
Earthly, yet no earthward guide,
Leading on his mortal part,
While Faith whispers to his heart,
This his steps, and that his breast
Cheering onward to their rest!
Though the silver almond-bough
Waves above his hoary brow,-
Though the sunny soul of yore
From its windows looks no more,-
Though his torch is burning low,
And its weak and wasting glow
Sheds, of all the light it gave,
But light enough to mark a grave;
Though the keepers tremble round,
And the mighty men are bound,
And the grinders few and still,
Yet the bird is singing shrill ;*
* See the 12th chapter of Ecclesiastes, for the images alluded to in this
and the eleven preceding lines.
Shrill, and sweet—and soft, and clear,
Speaking, to his spirit's ear,
Of the country, bright and free,
He has come so far to see!
- Can his way seem long and far,
With that crutch-and bird-and star!
BEAUTIFUL Spirits! whither do ye fly
When the first roseate blush of morning streaks, With trembling touch, the cliffs and mountain peaks, And the pale bosom of the wakeful sky?
Where lies the gorgeous land of Faëry?
Far underground? — beneath the grassy hills?
Or down in the recesses of bright rills,
Where never penetrated human eye?
Or, wrapt in folded blossoms, do ye hide
During the summer noon? Perchance 'tis ye
That fill the crimson rose with fragrancy ·
And load the white bells of that gentle bride
The dingle lily with rare melody?
Tell me, fair spirits where do ye abide ?
FROM THE POEMS OF BERNIS.
"Tendre objet des pleurs d' Aurore.'
IMPEARLED in morning's richest dew,
Sweet flower, thy silken leaf unclose,
And blush thy softest, sweetest hue,
My timid Rose !
Yet stay, one little moment stay;
How like my hope thy crimson glows!
But born, and dying with the day,
Poor, transient Rose!
Yet go, my lady's lip thou❜lt see,
And rest upon her bosom's snows;
Like thee to rest, I'd die like thee,
Too happy Rose !
But, if thou breathe her lips' perfume,
The sigh she never gave my woes,
Thou'lt flourish in immortal bloom,
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