19. "By the torture, prolonged from age to age, By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, 20. "We boast our proofs, that at least the Jew Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew. Thy face took never so deep a shade But we fought them in it, God our aid! [The present Pope abolished this bad business of the THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL: A PICTURE AT FANO. 1. DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave Shall find performed thy special ministry 2. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb - and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door! 3. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread? 4. If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and supprest. 5. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! 6. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend) that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently,— with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. 7. We were at Fano, and three times we went - My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame, (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent) 8. And since he did not work so earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong, I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My Love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? CLEON. "As certain also of your own poets have said CLEON the poet, (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece") To Protos in his Tyranny: much health! They give thy letter to me, even now: Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands |