Nor were the lighter gifts denied
Of manly form or noble mien;
Such form, if ancient Greece had seen,
Like Jason's had been deified,
And virgin hands with flowers had dressed
An altar for the heavenly guest,
As if, to bless their grateful eyes,
Apollo's self had left the skies,
Greeting their pious sacrifice.
She had an eye of such a hue,
So ever-varying, ever new,
That none on whom its lustre fell
Could e'er forget, could ever tell
If like the mild approach of day,
The morning twilight's watery gray;
Or like the noontide's dazzling blue;
Or beamy brown, when evening dew
Prolongs the dim, departing light;
Or the jet, that seems to quench the sight,
Of a starless, still autumnal night.
For oft 't was like an armed knight,
In steel encompassed, dark and bright,
And fiercely flashed, as if 't would lead
Onward to some immortal deed :
And then it seemed an elfin well,
Imbowered in some sequestered dell,
Where Cupids sport in ceaseless motion,
Bathing as in an amber ocean!
Ah, then he wished that life would prove
For ever thus, a dream of love!
But oft, -more oft, with searing pain, It seemed a wandering comet's train, Streaming athwart his burning brain,— Foreboding with its lurid flame
An evil yet without a name!
And well, Monaldi, mayst thou rue
This vision which thy fancy drew;
For thine was but a fearful bliss, -
A trancing, but a poisoned, kiss!
'T is not to honor thee by verse of mine
I bear a record of thy wondrous power;
Thou stand'st alone, and needest not to shine
With borrowed lustre : for the light is thine
Which no man giveth; and, though comets lower Portentous round thy sphere, thou still art bright;
Though many a satellite about thee fall, Leaving their stations merged in trackless night, Yet take not they from that supernal light
Which lives within thee, sole, and free of all.
THUS o'er his art indignant Rubens reared
His mighty head, nor critic armies feared.
His lawless style, from vain pretension free,
Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
High o'er the rocks of Reason's ridgy verge
Impending hangs; but, ere the foaming surge
Breaks o'er the bound, the under-ebb of taste
Back from the shore impels the watery waste.
TO THE AUTHOR OF “THE DIARY OF AN ENNUYÉE,"
ONE OF THE TRUEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL BOOKS EVER WRITTEN ON ITALY.
SWEET, gentle Sibyl! would I had the charm,
E'en while the spell upon my heart is warm,
To waft my spirit to thy far-off dreams,
That, giving form and melody to air,
The long-sealed fountains of my youth might there
Before thee shout, and toss their starry stream,
Flushed with the living light which youth alone
Sheds like the flash from heaven,- that straight is gone!
For thou hast waked as from the sleep of years,
No, not the memory, with her hopes and fears, —
But e'en the breathing, bounding, present youth;
And thou hast waked him in that vision clime,
Which, having seen, no eye the second time
May ever see in its own glorious truth;
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