A feeble voice may give an earnest sound, And grateful hearts are measured not by power, Therefore may I, tho' nameless and uncrowned, Proffer a friendly tribute to thy dower. For on the midland Sea I sailed of old, Leading thy line of narrow rippled light, And saw it grow a field of frosted gold, With every boat a Shadow in the Bright; And many a playful fancy has been mine, As I have watched the shapes thy glory made, Glimpsing like starlight through the massive pine, Or finely-trellised by mimosa shade;
And now I trace each moment of thy spell,
That frees from mortal stain these Venice isles, From eve's rich shield to morn's translucid shell, From Love's young glow to Love's expiring smiles!
We gaze upon the faces we hold dear, Each feature in thy rays as well defined, As just a symbol of informing mind,
As when the noon is on them full and clear; Yet all some wise attempered and subdued, Not far from what to Faith's prospective eyes Transfigured creatures of beatitude
From earthy graves arise.
Those evenings, oh! those evenings, when with one, Then the world's loveliness, now wholly mine,
I stood beside the salient founts that shone
Fit frontispiece to Peter's Roman shrine ;
I knew how fair were She and They In every bright device of day,
All happy as a lark on wing, A singing, glistening, dancing thing, With joy and grace that seemed to be Of Nature's pure necessity;
But when, O holy Moon! thy might Turned all the water into light,
And each enchanted Fountain wore Diviner beauty than before,
A pillar of aspiring beams, An ever-falling veil of gleams,- She who in day's most lively hour Had something of composing power About her mirthful lips and eyes,— Sweet folly making others wise, Was vested with a sudden sense Of great and grave intelligence,
As if in thy reflex she saw
process of eternal law,
God's conscious pleasure working out
Through all the Passion, Pain, and Doubt ;
And thus did She and Thou impart
Such knowledge to my listening heart,
Such sympathies as word or pen
Can never tell again!
All spirits find themselves fulfilled in Thee, The glad have triumph and the mourning balm : Dear God! how wondrous that a thing should be So very glorious and so very calm!
The lover, standing on a lonely height, Rests his sad gaze upon the scene below, Lapt in the trance of thy pervading glow, Till pleasant tears obscure his pensive sight; And in his bosom those long-smothered flames, The scorching elements of vain desire, Taking the nature of thy gentle fire,
Play round the heart in peace, while he exclaims, "Surely my Love is out somewhere to-night!"
Why art thou thus companionable? Why Do we not love thy light alone, but Thee? Is it that though thou art so pure and high, Thou dost not shock our senses, as they be? That our poor eyes rest on thee, and descry Islands of earth within thy golden sea? Or should the root be sought
In some unconscious thought,
That thy fine presence is not more thine own
Than are our soul's adorning splendours ours?—
Than are the energies and
With which reflected light alone
Illuminates the living hours,
From our own wells of being brought,
From virtue self-infused or seed of life self-sown? Thus with ascent more ready may we pass From this delightful sharing of thy gifts
Up to the common Giver, Source, and Will; And if, alas!
His daily-affluent sun-light seldom lifts To thankful ecstasy our hearts' dull mass, It may be that our feeble sight Will not confront the total light, That we may love, in nature frail, To blend the vivid with the pale,
The dazzling with the dim:
And lo! how God, all-gracious still
Our simplest fancies to fulfil,
Bids us, O Southern Moon, thy beauty hail,
In Thee rejoicing and adoring Him.
PICTURE BY GIOV. BELLINI, IN THE CHURCH OF THE
WHO am I, to be so far exalted
Over all the maidens of Judæa, That here only in this lonely bosom Is the wonder-work of God revealed ? Oh! to think this little, little, infant, Whose warm limbs upon my knees are resting, Helpless, silent, with his tender eyelids, Like two pearl-shells, delicately closed,
Is informed with that eternal spirit, Who, between the Cherubim enthroned, Dwells behind the Curtain of the Temple! I can only gaze on him adoring, Fearful lest the simple joy and passion Which my mother-love awakes within me, Be not something bold and too familiar For this Child of Miracle and Glory.
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