The sun, beneath the horizon's brow His presence is far lordlier now Than on the throne of day; His spirit of splendour has gone forth, Sloping wide violet rays, Possessing air and sea and earth With his essential blaze.* Transpierced, transfused, each densest mass Melts to as pure a glow, As images on painted glass That wildly-grand design! How 'mid the universal sheen Of marble amber-tinged, Like some enormous baldaquin *The perfect transparency and rich colour of all objects, and their reflections, in southern countries, for some short time after sunset, has an almost miraculous effect to a northern eye. Whenever it has been imitated in art, it has been generally pronounced unnatural or exaggerated. I do not remember to have ever seen the phenomenon so astonishingly beautiful as at Venice, at least in Italy. It stands in air and will not move, The dun-lead Domes just caught above- Now a more distant beauty fills Thy scope of ear and eye,—— That graceful cluster of low hills, Bounding the western sky, Which the ripe evening flushes cover With purplest fruitage-bloom, Methinks that gold-lipt cloud may hover Just over Petrarch's tomb ! Petrarch! when we that name repeat, Its music seems to fall Like distant bells, soft-voiced and sweet, But sorrowful withal That broken heart of love !—that life Of tenderness and tears! So weak on earth,-in earthly strife, So strong in holier spheres ! How in his most of godlike pride, While emulous nations ran To kiss his feet, he stept aside And wept the woes of man! How in his genius-woven bower Of passion ever green, The world's black veil fell, hour by hour, Him and his rest between. Welcome such thoughts ;-they well atone With this more serious mood Of visible things that night brings on, In her cool shade to brood; The moon is clear in heaven and sea, Slow-changing to bright gold, but she ODE TO THE MOON OF THE SOUTH. LET him go down,-the gallant Sun! His work is nobly done; Within his solid orb The rays so beautiful and strong, The rays that have been out so long Embracing this delighted land as with a mystic song. Let the brave Sun go down to his repose, He need not mourn for those He leaves behind; He knows, that when his ardent throne We shall not sit in sullen sorrow And gracious rivalry disclose To our reverted eyes, Between the passing splendour and the born, Which can the most our happy world adorn. The light of night shall rise,— Not as in northern skies, A memory of the day, a dream Of sunshine, something that might seem Between a shadow and a gleam, A mystery, a maiden Whose spirit worn and sorrow laden Pleasant imaginations wile Into a visionary smile, A novice veiled in vapoury shrouds, Wilt thou come forth serene, Thou full and perfect Queen, Moon of the South! twin-sister of the Sun ! Still harboured in his tent of cloth of gold With many a tender and triumphant tone And harmonies of hue to other climes unknown. He too, who knows what melody of word May with that visual music best accord, Why does the Bard his homage now delay ? The royal Minstrel-Priest Sang to his harp that Hallelujah lay This blessed even-tide, Is there no Poet whose divine behest |