heaven.

Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes
Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside,
Emerging from his dream, and standing firm
Upon a purpose with his sovereign will.
He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"
Confidingly and softly to the corpse,
And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art
Against his fancy, he addressed himself
With stolid resolution to his task,
Turning his vision on his memory,
And shutting out the present, till the dead,
The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard,
And all the meaning of that solemn scene
Became as nothing, and creative Art
Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed
The elements according to her law :

So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked

The settled purpose of Omnipotence.

And it was wondrous how the red, the white,
The ochre, and the umber, and the blue,
From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque,
Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines;
How just beneath the lucid skin the blood
Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart
Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;
How the light glittered through and underneath
The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes
Became intelligent with conscious thought,
And somewhat troubled underneath the arch
Of eyebrows but a little too intense
For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise
Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot
Suggested life just ceased from motion; so
That any one might cry, in marvelling joy,
"That creature lives, - has senses, mind, a soul
To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties !"

The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!'
Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch
To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,
"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth
Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"
The lofty flame, which bore him up so long,
Died in the ashes of humanity;
And the mere man rocked to and fro again
Upon the centre of his wavering heart.
He put aside his palette, as if thus
He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed
A mortal function in the common world.
"Now for my rights!" he muttered, and ap-
proached

The noble body. "O lily of the world!
So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou

When thou wast budding, and the streams of life
Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,
And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious
dews

On its transplanted darling? Hear me now!
I say this but in justice, not in pride,
Not to insult thy high nobility,

But that the poise of things in God's own sight
May be adjusted; and hereafter I

May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven
Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.
Laura, you loved me ! Look not so severe,
With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn
lips!

You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,
Let it consume you in the wearing strife
It fought with duty in your ravaged heart.
I knew it ever since that summer day

I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child,
At rest beside the fountain; when I felt -
O Heaven! the warmth and moisture of your

-

breath

Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul
Forgetting soul and body go as one—
You leaned across my easel till our cheeks
Ah me! 't was not your purpose touched, and

clung!

Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught?
I ween it wears as proud a diadem
Here, in this very world as that you wear.
A king has held my palette, a grand-duke
Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged
The favor of my presence in his Rome.

I did not go; I put my fortune by.

I need not ask you why: you knew too well.
It was but natural, it was no way strange,
That I should love you. Everything that saw,
Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet,
And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,
I see the halo curving round your head,
I loved you once; but now I worship you,
For the great deed that held my love aloof,
And killed you in the action! I absolve
Your soul from any taint. For from the day
Of that encounter by the fountain-side
Until this moment, never turned on me
Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong
To nature by the cold, defiant glare
With which they chilled me. Never heard I word
Of softness spoken by those gentle lips ;
Never received a bounty from that hand
Which gave to all the world.
You did your duty, --not for honor's sake,
Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse,
Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,

I know the cause.

But for the sake of that pure, loyal love
Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God,
I bow before the lustre of your throne !
I kiss the edges of your garment-hem,
And hold myself ennobled ! Answer me,
If I had wronged you, you would answer me
Out of the dusty porches of the tomb :
Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I
Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!"
A voice replied; and at his side he saw

A form, half shadow and half substance, stand,
Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth

It had no footing, more than some dense mist
That wavers o'er the surface of the ground
It scarcely touches. With a reverent look
The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent
Above the picture; as though greater awe
Subdued its awful being, and appalled,
With memories of terrible delight
And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze.
"You make what God makes,

the shape.

A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,

Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face
With nameless torture. But he cried aloud,
Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke
Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine!
Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand,
And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head
He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see-
"Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure
These vile abominations! Shall she bear
Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice,
While God is justice?" Who has made you
judge

"And might not this, this second Eve, console The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh ? Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, Stand baffled and disarmed.

ask

What would you

More than God's power, from nothing to create?"
The artist gazed upon the boding form,
And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,
That were an idle question. What to me
Is my creative power, bereft of love?

66

Or what to God would be that self-same power, If so bereaved?" And yet the love, thus mourned,

You calmly forfeited. For had you said
To living Laura in her burning ears —
One half that you professed to Laura dead,
She would have been your own. These contraries
Sort not with my intelligence. But speak,
Were Laura living, would the same stale play
Of raging passion tearing out its heart
Upon the rock of duty be performed ?”
"The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear
Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith
From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you
This Laura, give her all the bloom and glow
Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,
The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul,
The love of genius, - yea, the very love,
The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love,
She bore you, flesh to flesh, would you receive
That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?"
A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips,
And glittered in the caverns of his eyes,
Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;

-

Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure,
Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice:
"I dare not bring her spirit to that shame!
Know my full meaning, I who neither fear
Your mystic person nor your dreadful power.
Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name
For my deliverance from your toils. I stand
Upon the founded structure of his law,
Established from the first, and thence defy
Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!"
The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw
The figure gathering, as from outer space,
Brightness on brightness; and his former shape
Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off,
And show a core of mellow fire within.
Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood,
That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell
Upon the floor, enringing him with flame;
And o'er the tresses of his beaming head
Arose a stream of many-colored light,
Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoo
Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up
The outstretched palms of his untainted soul
Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus,

then asked,

With reverential wonder quivering through

thou?"

"Then take my hand, if so God orders it;
For Laura waits me." 66
But, bethink thee, man,
What the world loses in the loss of thee!
What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse !
What unwon glories are in store for thee!
What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks,
Would shine upon the letters of thy name
Graven in marble, or the brazen height
Of columns wise with memories of thee !"
"Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs,
I could but paint those features o'er and o'er :
Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit
The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven,
With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.

That he may call it up when far away.

Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,

The sufferer lightly on his aching heart;
And gently, as the skylark settles down
Upon the clustered treasures of her nest,
So Carlo softly slid along the prop
Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot

With Scripture stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor,
That, by the way it may be true or false —
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not

GEORGE HENRY BOKER.

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched
walks,

Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, Enter the house prythee, forget it not And look awhile upon a picture there.

-

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race;

Done by Zampieri - but I care not whom. He who observes it, ere he passes on,

She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire ; Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, When all sate down, the bride was wanting there,

Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed.
But that she was not!

Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" "T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!
All else had perished, -save a nuptial-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"GINEVRA."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.

"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ;
"Here tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace
The clew to my secret lurking-place."
Away she ran, - and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;
And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou

hide?

I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night, and they sought her next day,

And they sought her in vain when a week passed

away:

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.

And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.'

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle, they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay mouldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!
O, sad was her fate! -in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring! -- and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.

GRIEF hath been known to turn the young head gray,

To silver over in a single day

The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime
Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time
Of Gallia's madness, that discrowned head
Serene, that on the accursed altar bled
Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen!
What must the sufferings of that night have
been

That one that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er
With time's untimely snow! But now no more,
Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee-

I have to tell a humbler history;

A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.

66

Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame, So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride, "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door, "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton * roar?

It's brewing up, down westward; and look there,
One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair ;
And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on,
As threats, the waters will be out anon.

That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way,
Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."

Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side

* A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny.