THOU wert fair, Lady Mary,
As the lily in the sun :
And fairer yet thou mightest be,
Thy youth was but begun :
Thine eye was soft and glancing,
Of the deep bright blue ;
And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.
They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest:
The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek;
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.
They carv'd thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
In the chancel all alone :
And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
When the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.
But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,
In the land of rest:
Thou art even as they took thee
At thine hour of prayer,
Save the glory that is on thee
From the sun that shineth there.
THE ROMAN LEGIONS On, aged Time! how far, and long, Travell'd have thy pinions strong, Since the masters of the world
Here their eagle-wings unfurl'd.
Onward as the legions pass'd,
Was heard the Roman trumpet's blast,
And see the mountain portals old
Now their opening gates unfold.
Slow moves the Consul's car between
Bright glittering helms and axes keen ;
O'er moonlit rocks, and ramparts bare,
High the Pretorian banners glare.
Afar is heard the torrent's moan,
The winds through rifted caverns groan;
The vulture's huge primeval nest,
Wild toss'd the pine its shatter'd crest;
Darker the blackening forest frown'd:
Strange murmurs shook the trembling
ground.
In the old warrior's midnight dream
Gigantic shadows seem'd to gleam,
The Caudine forks, and Cannæ's field
Again their threatening cohorts yield.
Seated on the Thunderer's throne,
He saw the shapes of gods unknown,
Saw in Olympus' golden hall
The volleyed lightning harmless fall,
The great and Capitolian lord
Dim sink, 'mid nameless forms abhorr'd.
Shook the Tarpeian cliff; around
The trembling Augur felt the sound;
Saw, God of Light! in deathly shade,
Thy rich, resplendent tresses fade,
And from the empty car of day The ethereal coursers bound away.
Then frequent rose the signal shrill,
Oft heard on Alba's echoing hill,
Or down the Apulian mountains borne,
The mingled swell of trump and horn ;
The stern centurion frown'd to hear
Unearthly voices murmuring near;
Back to his still and Sabine home
Fond thoughts and favorite visions roam.
Sweet Vesta! o'er the woods again
He views thy small and silent fane;
He sees the whitening torrents leap
And flash round Tibur's mountain-steep;
Sees Persian ensigns wide unroll'd,
Barbaric kings in chains of gold;
O'er the long Appian's crowded street,
Sees trophied arms and eagles meet,
Through the tall arch their triumph pour,
Till rose the trumpet's louder roar ;
From a thousand voices nigh
Burst on his ear the banner-cry,
And o'er the concave rocks, the sound
“AVRELIVS," smote with stern rebound.
HALF kneeling yet, and half reclining,
She held her harp against her knees: Aloft the ruddy roofs were shining,
And sunset touch'd the trees. From the gold border gleam'd like snow Her foot a crown enrich'd her brow: Dark gems confin'd that crimson vest Close-moulded on her neck and breast.
In silence lay the cloistral court
And shadows of the convent towers:
Well order'd now in stately sort
Those royal halls and bowers.
The choral chaunt had just swept by;
Bright arms lay quivering yet on high :
Thereon the warriors gaz'd, and then
Glanced lightly at the Queen again.
While from her lip the wild hymn floated,
Such grace in those uplifted eyes
And sweet, half absent looks, they noted
That, surely, through the skies
A Spirit, they deem'd, flew forward ever
Above that song's perpetual river,
And, smiling from its joyous track,
Upon her heavenly face look'd back.
I LEARN'D his greatness first at Lavington: The moon had early sought her bed of brine,
But we discours'd till now each starry sign Had sunk our theme was one and one
"Two minds supreme," he said, "our earth has known;
One sang in science; one serv'd God in song;
THOU art not, and thou never canst be mine; The die of fate for me is thrown,
No more to me than some resplendent shade
Flung on the canvas by old art divine;
Or vision of shap'd stone;
Or the far glory of some starry sign
Which hath a beauty unapproachable
To aught but sight, - a throne
High in the heavens and out of reach;
Therefore with this low speech
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