Inspired of Heaven! what heightened power ye
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome;
Round many a work that bids the world believe
What Grecian Art could image and achieve;
Again, creative minds, your visions throw
Life's chasten'd warmth, and Beauty's mellowest
And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes,
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume, with purple smile,
The Parian altar, and the pillar'd aisle,
Then, as the full, or soften'd radiance falls,
On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls,
Well may those Temples, where your hand has
shed
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance
there,
Some sphere where beings, to mankind unknown,
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!
Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy's erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time, Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd,
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd.
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore
The land of miracles, the holiest shore;
That realm where first the light of life was sent,
The loved, the punish'd of th' Omnipotent!
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way; By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,
Chain'd in dead silence and unbroken sleep;
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell,
Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd.
Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd,
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
Breathed "still small" whispers on the midnight
gale.
There dwelt her spirit-there her hand portray'd,
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb'd in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest.
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save ;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul return'd to animate the dead;
Whom the waves own'd—and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;
To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers
O'er her bright scenes sublime repose she threw,
As all around the Godhead's presence knew,
And robed the Holy One's benignant mien
In beaming mercy, majesty serene.
Oh! mark where Raphael's pure and perfect
line
Portrays that form ineffably divine!
Where with transcendent skill his hand has shed
Diffusive sunbeams round the Saviour's head;
Each heaven-illumined lineament imbued
With all the fullness of beautitude,
And traced the sainted group, whose mortal sight
Sinks overpower'd by that excess of light!
Gaze on that scene, and own the might of Art,
By truth inspired to elevate the heart,
To bid the soul exultingly possess,
Of all her powers, a heighten'd consciousness;
And strong in hope, anticipate the day,
The last of life, the first of freedom's ray;
To realize, in some unclouded sphere,
Those pictured glories feebly imaged here!
Dim, cold reflections from her native sky,
Faint effluence of "the Day-spring from on
high!"
"I'WAS but a dream! I saw the stag leap free, Under the boughs where early birds were
I stood, o'ershadow'd by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seem'd, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest; then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook,
And lilies quiver'd by the glade's lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and all pass'd by,
Save one I met the smile of one clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine.-Yes, thou wert there,
Seymour! a soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away!
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side; and we, that met and parted,
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, Won back to childhood's trust, and, fearlesshearted,
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that
E'en like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath Dim woven leaves, and 'midst the floating breath Of hidden forest flowers.
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, My love and friend! Yet, fostering for thy sake, A quenchless hope of happiness to be; And feeling still my woman's spirit strong In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong, A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love Shall yet call gentle angels from above,
By its undying fervor; and prevail,
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face,
With a free gush of sunny tears erase
The characters of anguish; in this trust,
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,
That I may bring thee back no faded form,
No bosom chill'd and blighted by the storm,
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by communion, swɩet.
And thou too art in bonds?-yet droop thou not, Oh, my beloved!-there is one hopeless lot, But one, and that not ours. Be ide the dead There sits the grief that mantle. up its head, Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, When darkness, from the vainly-doting sight,
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