AUSTERITY OF POETRY THAT SON of Italy who tried to blow,* Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off—and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD WHAT made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell? 'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony ; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, And his child's reason flicker'd, and did die. Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery They hang; the picture doth the story tell. Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand! The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze, Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are! Methinks the woe, which made that father stand RACHEL I IN Paris all look'd hot and like to fade. Sere, in the garden of the Tuileries, Sere with September, droop'd the chestnut-trees. 'Twas dawn; a brougham roll'd through the streets and made Halt at the white and silent colonnade Of the French Theatre. Worn with disease, Rachel, with eyes no gazing can appease, Sate in the brougham and those blank walls survey'd. She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled To Switzerland, to Baden, to the Rhine; Why stops she by this empty play-house drear? Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led, RACHEL II UNTO a lonely villa, in a dell And laid her in a stately room, where fell The fret and misery of our northern towns, Do for this radiant Greek-soul'd artist cease; RACHEL III SPRUNG from the blood of Israel's scatter'd race, At a mean inn in German Aarau born, To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn, Trick'd out with a Parisian speech and face, Imparting life renew'd, old classic grace; Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone She had one power, which made her breast its home! In her, like us, there clash'd, contending powers, Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome. The strife, the mixture in her soul, are ours ; Her genius and her glory are her own. |