TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Here, where a hero fell, a cult le C Own. e enwritten es! lope! p om sight, ; g trees xined. ve gone. t night, ve) since. h the years. ave. e ght, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope), HYMN. AT morn -at noon -at twilight dim— Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and woe — My soul, lest it should truant be, Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine! ΤΟ Nor long ago, the writer of these lines, Maintained "the power of words "-denied that ever Beyond the utterance of the human tongue : That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,' Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures") Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, To where the prospect terminates—thee only. TO MY MOTHER.* BECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you My mother-my own mother, who died early, Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. * Addressed to a lady who well deserved that name from PoeMARIA CLEMM, his mother-in-law. See WILLIS's "Hurry-Graphs." -ED. |