That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place
Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died.
When with life lengthened out came a desolate time,
And darkness and danger had compassed him round, With a thought he would flee to these haunts of his prime,
And here once again a kind shelter be found. And let me believe that when nightly the Muse Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill,
Here also, on some favored height, he would choose To wander, and drink inspiration at will.
Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page
Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind
Had a musical charm, which the winter of age
And the changes it brings had no power to unbind.
And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you
I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part,
While
your leaves I behold and the brooks they
will strew,
And the realized vision is clasped to my heart.
Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may
In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense;
Unblamed, if the Soul be intent on the day
When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence.
For he and he only with wisdom is blest
Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow,
Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest,
To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity flow.
UNDER the shadow of a stately Pile,
The Dome of Florence, pensive and alone,
Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while,
I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone,
The laurelled Dante's favorite seat. A throne,
In just esteem, it rivals; though no style
Be there of decoration to beguile
The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown.
As a true man, who long had served the lyre,
I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more.
But in his breast the mighty Poet bore
A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire.
Bold with the thought, in reverence I sat down,
And, for a moment, filled that empty Throne.
BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE.
THE Baptist might have been ordained to cry Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein
His father served Jehovah; but how win
Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy
The obstinate pride and wanton revelry
Of the Jerusalem below, her sin
And folly, if they with united din
Drown not at once mandate and prophecy?
Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence To her, as to her opposite in peace,
Silence, and holiness, and innocence,
To her and to all lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, "Make straight a highway for the Lord,― repent!'
AT FLORENCE. FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
RAPT above earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through his grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide
Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,
My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to thee;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES.
YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine
Altars that piety neglects;
Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine
Which no devotion now respects;
If not a straggler from the herd
Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird,
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride
grace or hide, How sadly is your love misplaced,
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!
Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds,
And ye
full often spurned as weeds,
In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness
From fractured arch and mouldering wall
Do but more touchingly recall
Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn
Appear to sight still more forlorn.
SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins,
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves ! - most hard
Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will
(As if her labor and her ease were twins)
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they,
the Man serving as her Slave.
Erelong their fates do each to each conform :
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