Its colonnades, with wide embracing arms, Spread forth as if to bless and shield from harms, Step in, behind your back the curtain swings; That tones the marbled aisle's magnificence, And mark! our church hath its own atmosphere, And broad as charity smiles o'er the whole, Refine the senses and uplift the soul. * * William Wetmore Story. MICHAEL ANGELO BUONAROTTI. READ AT A CELEBRATION OF THE FOUR HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH. No numbers can compute, no tongue translate in words. Patient to train and school His genius to the rule Art's sternest laws required; Yet, by no custom chained, His daring hand disdained The academic forms by tamer souls admired. In his interior light Awoke those shapes of might, Once known, that never die; Forms of Titanic birth The elder brood of earth, That fill the mind more grandly than they charm the eye. Yet when the master chose, Ideal graces rose Like flowers on gnarléd boughs; For he was nursed and fed At Beauty's fountain-head, And to the goddess pledged his earliest, warmest vows. Entranced in thoughts whose vast Imaginations passed Into his facile hand, By adverse fate unfoiled, Through long, long years he toiled; Undimmed the eyes that saw, unworn the brain that planned. A soul the Church's bars, Kept closer to his youth. Though rough the winds and sharp, His soul's ideal forms of beauty and of truth. Like some cathedral spire That takes the earliest fire Whose lights to his were dark; Facing the east, he caught a glow beyond his time. Whether he drew, or sung, Or wrought in stone, or hung The Pantheon in the air; Her Sistine walls or dome, Or laid the ponderous beams, or lightly wound the stair; Whether he planned defence Fired with the patriot's zeal, Smiled down upon the foe, Till Treason won the gates that mocked the invader's steel; Whether in lonely nights He cheered his solitude; Like marble altars in some dark and mystic wood, Still, proudly poised, he stepped The way his vision swept, And scorned the narrower view. He touched with glory all That pope or cardinal, With lower aims than his, allotted him to do. A heaven of larger zone- O'er old and wonted themes. The fires within his soul Shone like an aureole Around the prophets old and sibyls of his dreams. Thus self-contained and bold, His glowing thoughts he told On canvas or on stone, His themes from Jew or Greek; His soul enlarged their forms, his style was all his own. Ennobled by his hand, Florence and Rome shall stand Art was his world, and he was Art's anointed king. So stood this Angelo So grandly still he stands, Like Memnon breathing songs across the desert sands. Christopher Pearse Cranch. CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN ST. PETER'S. Low OW on the marble floor I lie: Though friendly voices whisper nigh, |