Sing to him, say to him, here at his | That many another hath done the VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimé), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine. ONCE more, once more, Inarimé, I see thy purple hills!-once more I hear the billows of the bay Wash the white pebbles on thy shore. High o'er the sea-surge and the sands, Like a great galleon wrecked and cast Ashore by storms, thy castle stands, A phantom gliding to and fro; Who lived and loved so long ago. Pescara's beautiful young wife, The type of perfect womanhood, Whose life was love, the life of life, That time and change and death withstood. For death that breaks the marriage band In others, only closer pressed The wedding ring upon her hand, And closer locked and barred her She knew the life-long martyrdom, Of waiting for some one to come Who nevermore would come again. The shadows of the chestnut-trees, The odour of the orange blooms, The song of birds, and, more than these, The silence of deserted rooms; The soft caresses of the air, Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist, Her life was interfused with light, From realms that, though unseen, exist. Inarimé! Inarimé! Thy castle on the crags above In dust shall crumble and decay, But not the memory of her love. Then stay at home, my heart, and | O'er all that flutter their wings and fly rest; The bird is safest in its nest; A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best. THOU ancient oak! whose myriad | With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed, Thou speakest a different dialect to each; To me a language that no man can teach, Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud. For underneath thy shade, in days remote, Seated like Abraham at eventide Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote His Bible in a language that hath died And is forgotten, save by thee alone. THE DESCENT OF THE MUSES. NINE sisters, beautiful in form and Had a new meaning, a diviner grace. Proud were these sisters, but were not too proud To teach in schools of little country towns Science and song, and all the arts that please; So that while housewives span, and farmers ploughed, Their comely daughters, clad in Learned the sweet songs of the 0 Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, One to the land of promise and of light, One to the land of darkness and of dreams! Broadens, and all the shadows fade and shift! I follow, follow, where thy waters run Through unfrequented, unfamiliar fields, Fragrant with flowers and musical with song; Still follow, follow; sure to meet the sun, And confident, that what the future yields III. Between thy narrow adamantine walls, But beautiful, and white with waterfalls, And wreaths of mist, like hands the pathway showing; I hear the trumpets of the morning blowing, I hear thy mighty voice, that calls and calls, Will be the right, unless myself be wrong. Thou wouldst not listen to a poet's lay. Thoughts, like a loud and sudden rush of wings, IV. Regrets and recollections of things past, With hints and prophecies of things to be, And inspirations, which, could they be things, And stay with us, and we could hold them fast, Were our good angels,-these I owe to thee. And see, as Ossian saw in Morven's halls, Mysterious phantoms, coming, beckoning, going! It is the mystery of the unknown That fascinates us; we are children still, Wayward and wistful; with one hand we cling To the familiar things we call our own, And with the other, resolute of will, Grope in the dark for what the day will bring. PP THE ceaseless rain is falling fast, And yonder gilded vane, And to the fireside gleams, And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me. I fancy I can hear again The Alpine torrent's roar, I see the convent's gleaming wall And towers of old cathedrals tall, I journey on by park and spire, And toil through various climes, |