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Sing to him, say to him, here at his | That many another hath done the

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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 mouldering landmark of the Past.
Upon its terrace-walk I see

A phantom gliding to and fro;
It is Colonna,-it is she

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
breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
The weariness, the endless pain

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 respiration of the sea,

The soft caresses of the air,
All things in nature seemed to be
But ministers of her despair;
Till the o'erburdened heart, so long
Imprisoned in itself, found vent
And voice in one impassioned song
Of inconsolable lament.

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.

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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.

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THOU ancient oak! whose myriad | With some mysterious gift of tongues

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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.

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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
homespun gowns,

Learned the sweet songs of the
Pierides.

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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

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THE ceaseless rain is falling fast,

And yonder gilded vane,
Immovable for three days past,
Points to the misty main.
It drives me in upon myself,

And to the fireside gleams,
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf,
And still more pleasant dreams.
I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea,

And the bright days when I was young Come thronging back to me.

I fancy I can hear again

The Alpine torrent's roar,
The mule-bells on the hills of Spain,
The sea at Elsinore.

I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine,

And towers of old cathedrals tall,
And castles by the Rhine.

I journey on by park and spire,
Beneath centennial trees,
Through fields with poppies all on fire,
And gleams of distant seas.
I fear no more the dust and heat,
No more I feel fatigue,
While journeying with another's feet,
O'er many a lengthening league.
Let others traverse sea and land,

And toil through various climes,
I turn the world round with my hand,
Reading these poet's rhymes.
From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone,
And see, when looking with their eyes,
Better than with mine own.

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