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Hail, ample presence of a Queen,
Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, Whose mantle, every shade of glancing
green, Flies back in fragrant breezes to display A tunic white as May!
Once more a downy drift against the brakes, Self - darken'd in the sky, descending
slow! But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes
Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow. These will thine eyes not brook in forest
paths, On their perpetual pine, nor round the
beech; They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, Solved in the tender blushes of the
peach; They lose themselves and die On that new life that gems the hawthorn
line; Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by, And out once more in varnish'd glory
She whispers, •From the South I bring
you balm, For on a tropic mountain was I born, While some dark dweller by the coco-palm Watcb'd my far meadow zoned with airy
morn; From under rose a muffled moan of floods;
I sat beneath a solitude of snow; There no one came, the turf was fresh, the
woods Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales
below. I saw beyond their silent tops The steaming marshes of the scarlet
cranes, The slant seas leaning on the mangrove
copse, And summer basking in the sultry plains About a land of canes.
She floats across the bamlet. Heaven
lours, But in the tearful splendor of her smiles I see the slowly-thickening chestnut towers
Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles. Now past her feet the swallow circling
flies, A clamorous cnckoo stoops to meet her
hand; Her light makes rainbows in my closing
eyes, I hear a charm of song thro’all the land. Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is
glad To roll her North below thy deepening
dome, But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, And these low bushes dip their twigs in
foam, Make all true hearths thy home.
I too would teach the man
bright, That his fresh life may close as it began,
The still-fulfilling promise of a light
Across my garden ! and the thicket stirs,
The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs,
The starling claps his tiny castanets. Still round her forehead wheels the wood
land dove, And scatters on her throat the sparks of
dew, The kingcup fills her footprint, and above
Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue.
So wed thee with my soul, that I may
mark The coming year's great good and varied
And new developments, whatever spark low the Gleam.” I know of no poem of Ten Be struck from out the clash of warring nyson's which more takes my heart with magic wills;
O YOUNG Mariner,
You from the haven
Under the sea-cliff, Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of You that are watching men;
The gray Magician Or should those fail that hold the helm,
With eyes of wonder, While the long day of knowledge grows I am Merlin, and warms,
And I am dying, And in the heart of this most ancient realm
I am Merlin A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms
Who follow the Gleam. Sounding. To arms ! to arms !!
Mighty the Wizard A simpler, saner lesson might he learn
Who found me at sunrise
And learu'd me Magic !
When over the valley,
Over the mountain, And changest, breathing it, the sullen
On human faces, wind,
And all around me, Thy scope of operation, day by day,
Moving to melody, Larger and fuller, like the human mind!
Floated the Gleam. Thy warmths from bud to bud
III Accomplish that blind model in the seed, And men have hopes, which race the rest- Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it less blood,
A barbarous people, That after many changes may succeed
Blind to the magic
And deaf to the melody,
A demon vext me,
The light retreated,
The landskip darken'd, Compare 'The Voyage ;' and see also ‘Free
The melody deaden'd, dom' (1884):
The Master whisperd,
• Follow the Gleam.'
Then to the melody, it is noble in thought and emotion. It speaks
Over a wilderness to all poetic hearts in England; it tells them of Gliding, and glancing at his coming death. It theu recalls his past, his
Elf of the woodland, youth, his manhood; his early poems, his crit
Gnome of the cavern, ics, his central labor on Arthur's tale ; and we
Griffin and Giant, see through its verse clear into the inmost
And dancing of Fairies chamber of his heart. What sits there upon
In desolate hollows, the throne, what has always sat thereon ? It is
And wraiths of the mountain, the undying longing and search after the ideal light, the mother - passi of all the supreme
And rolling of dragons artists of the world. “I am Merlin, who fol
By warble of water.
Or cataract music Of falling torrents, Flitted the Gleam.
No longer a shadow,
Down from the mountain
And broader and brighter
Then, with a melody
Not of the sunlight,
Clouds and darkness
Silent and slowly
Out of the glimmer,
[I read Hayley's Life of Romney the other day Romney wanted but education and reading to make him a very fine painter : but his ideal was not high nor fixed. How touching is the close of his life! He married at nine. teen, and because Sir Joshua and others had said that “marriage spoilt an artist' almost immediately left his wife in the North and
scarce saw her till the end of his life ; when My curse upon the Master's apothegm, old, nearly mad, and quite desolate, he went That wife and children drag an artist back to her and she received him and nursed
down ! him till he died. This quiet act of hers is
This seem'd my lodestar in the heaven of worth all Romney's pictures ! even as a matter
Art, of Art, I am sure. — EDWARD FITZGERALD,
And lured me from the household fire on * Letters and Literary Remains,' vol. i.)
earth. · BEAT, little heart - I give you this and To you my days have been a lifelong lie, this.
Grafted on half a truth; and tho' you say, Who are you? What i the Lady Ham
have won the painter's ilton ?
fame,' Good, I am never weary painting you.
The best in me that sees the worst in me, Co sit once more ? Cassandra, Hebe, Joan,
And groans to see it, finds no comfort
there, Dr spinning at your wheel beside the vine
What fame? I am not Raphael, Titian, Bacchante, what you will; and if I fail
no, To conjure and concentrate into form
Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. And color all you are, the fault is less Wrong there! The painter's fame ? but In me than Art. What artist ever yet
mine, that grew Could make pure light live on the canvas ?
Blown into glittering by the popular breath, Art!
May float awhile beneath the sun, may roll Why should I so disrelish that short word ?
The rainbow hues of heaven about it Where am I ? snow on all the hills ! so
There ! hot,
The color'd bubble bursts above the abyss So fever'd ! never colt would more delight Of Darkness, utter Letbe. To roll himself in meadow grass than I To wallow in that winter of the hills.
Is it so ? Nurse, were you hired ? or came of your
Her sad eyes plead for my own fame with To wait on one so broken, so forlorn ? To make it dearer. Have I not met you somewhere long ago ? I am all but sure I have in Kendal
Look, the sun has risen church
To flame along another dreary day. O, yes ! I hired you for a season there,
Your hand. How bright you keep your And then we parted; but you look so kind marriage-ring! That you will not deny my sultry throat
Raise me. I thank you. One draught of icy water. There — you spill
Has your opiate then The drops upon my forehead. Your hand Bred this black mood ? or am I conscious,
shakes. I am ashamed. I am a trouble to you,
Than other Masters, of the chasm between Could kneel for your forgiveness. Are
Work and Ideal ? Or does the gloom of they tears ?
age For me they do me too much grace
And suffering cloud the height I stand for me ?
upon O Mary, Mary!
Even from myself ? stand ? stood
The world would lose, if such a wife as you words,
Should vanish unrecorded. Might I crave Wild babble. I have stumbled back again One favor ? I am bankrupt of all claim Into the common day, the sounder self. On your obedience, and my strongest wish God stay me there, if only for your sake, Fails flat before your least unwillingness. The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted wife Still, would you - if it please you — sit to That ever wore a Christian marriage-ring.
I dream'd last night of that clear sum- Stampt into dust – tremulous, all awry, mer noon,
Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled pool, When seated on a rock, and foot to foot Not one stroke firm. This Art, that harlotWith your own shadow in the placid lake,
like You claspt our infant daughter, heart to Seduced me from you, leaves me harlotheart.
like, I had been among the hills, and brought Who love her still, and whimper, impotent
To win her back before I die and then A length of staghorn-moss, and this you | Then, in the loud world's bastard judgtwined
ment-day, About her cap. I see the picture yet, One truth will damn me with the mindless Mother and child. A sound from far away,
mob, No louder than a bee among the flowers, Who feel no touch of my temptation, more A fall of water lull’d the noon asleep. Than all the myriad lies that blacken round You still'd it for the moment with a song The corpse of every man that gains a name; Which often echo'd in me, while I stood • This model husband, this fine artist !! Before the great Madonna-masterpieces
Fool, Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. What matters ? Six foot deep of burial
mould Mary, my crayons ! if I can, I will. Will dull their comments ! Ay, but wher You should have been - I might have
the shout made you once,
Of His descending peals from heaven, and Had I but known you as I know you now
throbs The true Alcestis of the time. Your song Thro' earth and all her graves, if He should Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof That I-even I - at times remember'd • Why left you wife and children ? for my you.
According to my word ?' and I replied, 'Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! mine!
• Nay, Lord, for Art,' why, that would you are mine, my sweet!
sound so mean All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,
That all the dead, who wait the doom of
hell Less profile ! turn to me three-quarter For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, face.
Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless Mussul.. 'Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss ! For I give you this, and I give you this !
Who flings his bowstrung harem in the And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss !
Sleep!' Would turn, and glare at me, and point Too early blinded by the kiss of death
And gibber at the worm who, living, made • Father and Mother will watch you grow'.
The wife of wives a widow-bride, and lost
Salvation for a sketch. You watch'd, not I; she did not grow, she
I am wild again ! died.
The coals of fire you heap upon my head
Have crazed me. Some one knocking there · Father and Mother will watch you grow,
without ? And gather the roses whenever they blow,
No! Will my Indian brother come ? to And find the white heather wherever you go,
find My sweet.'
Me or my coffin ? Should I know the Ah, my white heather only blooms in hea
This worn-out Reason dying in her house With Milton's amaranth. There, there, May leave the windows blinded, and if so, there ! a child
Bid him farewell for me, and tell him — Had shamed me at it - Down, you idle
I hear a death-bed angel whisper, · Hope.'