TO THE GENIUS OF DEATH, BY CANOVA.

Genius of Death! Thou form as white and slim As moonbeams, falling through the awful dome Above thee when the deathlike night draws down; Speak, through those sweet, still lips, whose solemn curve Alone gives token of thine ancient, dread Supremacy! Say that thou art not Death, But holy Calm or silent hushed Repose.

Still are thy stern lips dumb, no hopeful breath Exhaling! Then, from them, do I appeal To something more divine. O'er that calm brow And carven face, uplifted from the tomb In speechless faith, there shines a wondrous light That mocks the awful declaration there.

Genius of Death thou canst not be, for lo!

Thou art the Soul of Immortality!

TO THE WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE.

"Winged Victory?" Unworthy is that name, Thou marble miracle of endless Time!

I see thee standing yonder in the light, Upon thy rude and lonely pedestal, A shape as strange as it is beautiful.

To me, thou art a winged mystery, For where, in all the ages of the past, Years of the present, centuries to come, Can there be found creation like to thee, Conceived by G.o.d or Man? A miracle; Marble in motion--yet divinely still, As though it paused to hear its own low breath-- Yet breathes not; pacing on its lonely height-- Yet stirs not; heavenly wings outspread, with chaste Angelic curve--yet not in flight extended.

Thou art not of the living nor the dead.

Thy wings do breathe of immortality, Of Heavenly Presence, yet thy headless form, In all its marred and mutilated grace, Points to the clay. How can we solve thee, then?

Enigma so profound was never known Among the many countless works of Man.

Thou art incarnate Mystery itself, Brooding above the world; the Universe Lies in the shadow of thine outspread wings-- Thou silent Spirit of the Infinite!

BEATRICE TRIUMPHANT.

(To Beatrice Cenci, as she is depicted in Guido Reni's painting of St.

Michael and the Dragon.)

Gold hair, blown back from radiant brow, Crowning, like light, a maiden, martyred head, Feet planted on the "Dragon," p.r.o.ne, And mighty wings in victory outspread.

In thee what change, divinely wrought!

What wondrous resurrection from the dead!

He lies, beneath thy righteous feet, Who, cruel craven, caused thee to be slain; He writhes who let thee agonize, A captive and in undeserved pain, And crawls, in sight of all the world, Forever rendered loathsome by that stain!

And thou, bright dream of brooding light, With woman's face and angel's stature, thou Exquisite seraph, fresh from G.o.d, Tell me, why wakes no awful vengeance now On thy grave lips? Oh! Woman, wronged, Unfold the mystery of that calm brow!

THE CALL OF THE IRISH SEA.

Gray Irish Sea, wild Irish Sea, That spreads so free, gray Irish Sea-- Your freedom mocks the sh.o.r.es you beat With the booming tread of your angry feet; The Celtic heart no longer sings To the rhythmic rush of Freedom's wings!

Wild Irish Sea, gray Irish Sea, Chant Freedom's dirge, wild Irish Sea!

Gray Irish Sea, wild Irish Sea, You call to me, gray Irish Sea, I hear the harp-strings of the North, And stirring bagpipes thrilling forth; I dream the dreams of olden days, I hear bold Ossian chant his lays!

Wild Irish Sea, gray Irish Sea, You call to me, wild Irish Sea!

THE LION OF LUCERNE.

Hid in a hushed retreat, a lovely dell, Where Mother Nature sings low lullabies, And weaves her silence like a sacred spell, Beneath the light of deep and tender skies, In his lone agony the Lion lies.

Colossal creature of a sculptor's brain, Are you the marble that you seem to be?

Inanimate, untouched by mortal pain?

Within that form, and yearning to be free, Your soul must wrestle with Death's mystery!

There is a height Self-sacrifice may climb, Nearer the throne of G.o.d than any star, A height above the wasting tide of Time, Beyond the din of Earth's discordant jar-- A height that untried souls scarce see afar.

On that great height the Lion of Lucerne, With face half-human, with majestic brow, Lies stretched. Oh, Love! that will forever burn On Pain's dread altar, you alone can know The glory and the recompense for Woe!

SONNET TO NIAGARA FALLS.

As on the brink of that which men call Death, Standing 'twixt Time and dread Eternity, We pause to gaze with fear-suspended breath On that abyss, whose depths we can not see, So now, I stand, above thy thundering fall, Thou Miracle, of marvels most supreme, Who summons all the world, with trumpet call, To adore the heavenly genius of thy stream!

In 'wildering confusion, mad disdain Of earthly trammels, earthly tyrannies, Shrieking, like legions of d.a.m.ned souls in pain, Roaring rebellion 'neath the silent skies, Fearful as Death, still thou dost seem to cry, "I am the symbol of Eternity!"

THE LOST HEART.

(A Rondeau.)

Where is my heart? Ah! Love, I dare not say, I only know that it is hid away, Somehow,--somewhere,--and somewhat restless there.

But safely hid away,--poor heart, somewhere.

I strive to call it back to me, but nay,-- That willful heart refuses to obey.

And do you ask, thus, in your sad, sweet way-- You, Love, who know so well its secret lair, Where is my heart?

Alone, I wait and wonder, day by day, At the poor, pulsing heart, that went astray, Once, in the mazes of a woman's hair.

Could it forsake a labyrinth so fair?

No need for you to ask, for me to say-- Where is my heart?

IS HE NOT MINE?