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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

The

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

powers,

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.

PICTURES IN VERSE.

I.

PICTURE BY GIOV. BELLINI, IN THE CHURCH OF THE

REDENTORE AT VENICE.

THE VIRGIN.

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.

I

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