To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, Beautiful thing! thou art come in joy, Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts He had twined about with his infant arts, To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, Beautiful thing! thou art come in peace, Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with CHRIST, we come to be, Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. Mrs. E. C. Kinney. TO POWERS'S GREEK SLAVE. BEAUTIFUL model of creative art! My spirit feels the reverence for thee, And did the sculptor shape thee, part by part, Fair, as if whole from Genius' mighty heart Thou'dst sprung, like Venus from the foaming sea? Ah! not for show, in a disgraceful mart, Is that calm look of conscious purity; A sensual glance, where holy minds would kneel, Save those who, false themselves, must shrink, forsooth, THE WOODMAN. E shoulders his axe for the woods, and away HE Hies over the fields at the dawn of the day, His dog scents his track, and pursues to a mark, And now in the forest the woodman doth stand. Ana quick do its blows through the woodland resound The proud tree low bendeth its vigorous form, They fall side by side-just as man in his prime But twilight approaches: the woodman and dog Come plodding together through snow-drift and bog; The axe, again shouldered, its day's work hath done; The woodman is hungry-the dog wants his bone. Oh, home is then sweet, and the evening repast! Elizabeth J. Eames. CROWNING OF PETRARCH. ARRAYED in a monarch's royal robes, With gold and purple gleaming, And the broidered banners of the proud pageantry Of the Anjouite's court attended, He came, that princely son of song: And the haughtiest nobles rendered Adoring homage to the laureate bard, Whose sky was luminous-with fame and glory starred. And following his triumphal car, With the silver clarion ringing In dazzling lustre bending: And radiant flowers their gem-like splendour shed In all its ancient grandeur was That sceptred city dressed, For him its sovereign guest: The voice of the Seven Hills went up From kingly hall and bower, And throngs with laurel-boughs poured forth To grace that triumph-hour; While censers wafted rich perfume around, And the glowing air with mirth and melody was crowned On, onward to the Capi ›l, Italia's children crowded Over three hundred triumphs there The sun had sat unclouded: For crowned kings and conquerors haugh. Had trod that path to glory, And poets won bright wreaths and names But ne'er before, king, bard, or victor came, Winning such honours for his name and poet-famę The glittering gates are passed, and he Shout of a nation's heart beneath him, While the kingly Orsos wreathe him! Well may the bard's enraptured heart beat high, Filled with the exulting thought of his gift's bright victory. Crowned one of Rome! from that lofty height Thou wear'st a conqueror's seeming— Thy dark, deep eye with the radiance Of inspiration beaming; Thou'st won the living wreath for which Thy young ambition panted; Thy aspiring dream is realized: Hast thou one wish ungranted? Kings bow to the might of thy genius-gifted mind; Hast thou one unattained hope, in the deep heart enshrined ? O wreathed lord of the lyre of song! Even then thy heart was haunted With one wild and passionate wish to lay That crown, a gift enchanted, Low at her feet, whose smile was more Than glory, fame, or power— For whose dear sake was won, and worn, The glittering laurel flower! Oh, little worth thy bright renown to thee, Unshared by her, the star of thy idolatry! |