Where Art still holds her ancient One there was, who in his sadness state (What though her banner now is furled), And keeps within her guarded gate The household treasures of the world: What joy amid all this to find One single bird, or flower, or leaf, Earth's any simplest show designed For pleasure, what though frail or brief If but that leaf, or bird, or flower, Were wafted from the western strand, To breathe into one happy hour The freshness of my native land! That joy is mine-the bird I hear, The flower is blooming near me now, The leaf that some great bard might wear In triumph on his sacred brow. For, lady, while thy voice and face Make thee the Tuscan's loveliest guest, Within this old romantic space Laid his staff and mantle down, Where the demons laughed to madness What the night-winds could not drown Never came a voice of gladness Though the cups should foam and And the pilgrim thus proclaiming "All the night I hear the speaking "On the hearth the brands are lying In a black, unseemly show; Through the roof the winds are sighing, And they will not cease to blow; Through the house sad hearts replying Send their answer deep and lowCome, arise, thou cheerless keeper, For I go. Breathes all the freshness of the "Tell me not of fires relighted West. A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN. YE, who follow to the measure Where the trump of Fortune leads, And at inns aglow with pleasure Rein your golden-harnessed steeds, In your hours of lordly leisure Have ye heard a voice of woe Pilgrim brothers, whose existence And of chambers glowing warm, Or of travellers benighted, Overtaken by the storm. Urge me not; your hand is blighted "Tell me not of goblets teeming "I will leave your dreary tavern There are reptiles on the floor; They have overrun your tavern, They are at your wine below! Come, arise, thou fearful keeper, For I go. Jay How the tunnelling fox looked out of his hole, Like one who notes if the skies are clear. No mower was there to startle the birds With the noisy whet of his reeking scythe; The quail, like a cow-boy calling his herds, Whistled to tell that his heart was blithe. Now all was bequeathed with pious care The groves and fields fenced round with briers To the birds that sing in the cloisters of air, And the squirrels, those merry woodland friars. LINES TO A BIRD WHICH SUNG AT MY WINDOW ONE MORNING IN LONDON. WHENCE Comest thou, oh wandering soul of song? Round the celestial gates hast thou been winging, And hearkening to the angels all night long To brighten earth with somewhat of their singing? Thou child of sunshine, spirit of the flowers! Nature, through thee, with loving tongue rejoices, Until these walls dissolve themselves to bowers, And all the air is full of woodland voices. The boy who whistled to lighten his The winds that slumbered in the fields toil Was a sexton somewhere far away. Instead, you saw how the rabbit and mole Burrowed and furrowed with never a fear: of dew, Float round me now with music on their pinions, Such as I heard while yet my years were few, By native streams, in boyhood's lost dominions. And with the breath of morning on my brow, I hear the accents of the few who love me; Sing on, full heart! I am no exile now This is no foreign sky that smiles above me. And, armed with courage, rise-and so depart; But what sweet bird shall sing to me to-morrow? THE SCULPTOR'S LAST HOUR. I hear the happy sounds of household All in their lifetime carve their own glee, The heart's own music, floating here to bless me, And little ones who smiled upon my knee Now clap the dimpled hands that would caress me. Oh! music sweeter than the sweetest chime Of magic bells by fairies set a-swinging; I am no pilgrim in a foreign clime, With these blest visions ever round me clinging. I hear a voice no melody can reach ; Dear lips, speak on in your accustomed measure, And teach my heart what you so well can teach, How only love is earth's enduring pleasure. Oh! music sweeter than the Arcadian's tune, Wooing the dryads from the woodlands haunted;. Or than beneath the mellow harvest moon Trembles at midnight over lakes enchanted! Oh! sweeter than the herald of the morn, The clarion lark, that wakes the drowsy peasant, Is this which thrills my breast, so else forlorn, And with the Past and distant fills the Present. Thus, with the music ringing in my heart, I may awhile forget an exile's sor row, soul's statue. THE middle chimes of night were dead ; The sculptor pressed his sleepless bed, With locks grown gray in a world of sin; His eyes were sunken, his cheeks were thin; And, like a leaf on a withering limb, While gazing on the shadowy wall, "Arise! it is your monarch's will; The stars that fill the fields of light Must shine among the seraphim: The sculptor rose with heavy heart, The while the messenger advanced, And thought he heard, yet knew not why. His hopes like boding birds go by, And felt his heart sink ceaselessly Now on the darkness swelled a sigh!- And ever, with its fall and rise, The old man's anxious asking eyes Grew larger with their blank surprise, With wonder why he wept : And while his eyes and wonder grew, Came, with the tears which gushed anew, The music of the stranger's tongue, But broken, like a swollen rill That heaves adown its native hill, Sobbing where late it sung:— "Is this the statue fair and white A long laborious life hath wrought, And which our generous Prince hath bought? Is this (so soulless, soiled, and dull) Too well unholy lusts bespeak; born Innumerable, from night till morn, And morn till night, have wrought their will, Like stones upon a barren hill. Thy hands, like windy branches, shake Ere from yon rampart high and round The watchful warder's blast shall sound, Let this be altered-still it may,Your Monarch brooks no more delay!" The stranger spake and passed away. A moment stood the aged man With lips apart, and looks aghast, And now a shudder o'er him ran, His eyes were glazed like heated But when the tears began to creep A long and shadowy train, Born of his sorrowing brain, With shining feet, and noiseless tread, By dewy-eyed Repentance led, Around the statue pressed: With eager hand and swelling breast, Hope, jubilant, the chisel seized And heavenward turned the eye; Forgiveness, radiant and pleased, The ridges of the brow released · While with a tear and sigh Sweet Charity the scorn effaced; And Mercy, mild and fair, Upon the lips her chisel placed, And left her signet there: And Love, the earliest - born of Heaven, Over the features glowing, ran; While Peace, the best and latest given, Finished what Hope began. THE SCULPTOR'S FUNERAL. THROUGH the darkened streets of Florence, Moving toward thy church, Saint Lorenz, Marched the bearers, masked and singing, With their ghostly flambeaux flinging Ghostlier shadows, that went winging Round the portals and the porches, Fell from out one turret only, By the night winds, leapt and flaunted, 'Mid the funeral rains that slanted, Those brave bearers marched and chanted, Through the darkness thick and dreary, With a woful voice and weary, MISERERE. Light to light, and dark to dark, Kindred natures thus agree; Where the soul soars none can mark, But the world below may hark— Miserere, Domine! Dew to dew, and rain to rain, Swell the streams and reach the sea; When the drouth shall burn the plain, Then the sands shall but remain- |