Who dares to talk about success In presence of that solemn blessedness? Are ye dead-defeated still? Is the lion silent on the hill? Doth the he-goat lie before the fane, All his glory dash'd with a red stain, Dropping from the heart's deep springs? Is the good hound mute upon the track? Is the mail'd king borne thro' tears that fall like rain, Drums and banners muffled up in black? Is the war-ship frozen up for ever? Shall the sailor see home's white cliffs never? Hush! Oh, leave him in the darkness of the land, Cover'd with the shadow of Christ's hand; Leave him in the midnight Arctic sun, God's great light o'er duty nobly done, God's great whiteness for the pardon won; Leave him waiting for the setting of the Throne, Leave him waiting for the trumpet to be blown, In God's bosom, in a land unknown. Leave him (he needeth no lament) With suns, and nights, and snow; Life's tragedy is more magnificent, Ending with that sublime and silent woe. 'Tis well it should be so. 1858. PICTURA POESIS. GENOA, 1872. Two sunny winter days I sped along The Riviera's winding mountain way; Scarcely I caught the blue sea's faint far song, By terraced hill and olive-shaded bay. Far off the Alpine snow's eternal line Stretch'd over hills with wondrous curves cut well, Against the irridescent dome divine, The cupola of light ineffable. They say thought loses 'neath the Italian heaven. Would it were thus! In sooth it may be so, In sight of the imperishable snow, In presence of the glory of that shore, -Selfish before that purity without end, Faith's eye ungifted with a sight more keen, What time the outward eye had fullest kenn'd Those long deep distances of lustrous sheen. False where our God so many a secret writes Aye, where the very winter half his nights If he have wrinkles, they are greenly hid; By the gold lamps of all the orange trees. And so we came to that world-famous sweep As if toward Africa, at close of day, Her galleys headed under press of sail, And to the gentle girl who paced beside Told tales of sinking ships and war clouds dun, Until he heard again the hurrying tide And the long growling of the battle gun. Yet still, through all the witchery of the clime, Nor ask'd in vain,-for wandering here and there, I own'd the magic of old Vandyck's art. Be still, and let me gaze-a noble child Upon the Master's canvas here I see: Surely two hundred summer suns have smiled Italian light, young Brignola, on thee. The light that makes such violets divine, The light, too, that makes hearts with living chords But thou, immortal child! with those dark eyes, And that proud brow-I will not call it white,— A something rather like the snow that lies Between dark clouds and the unclouded light. I know not, will not ask what was thy fate- Whether with intermingling gleam and gloom Thy shadows and thy sunshine did rain down, Like that sweet lady in the other room, Thy sister with the gold on her green gown. Whether thou livedst till the winter came, The unextinguish'd light of those full eyes. Whether thou lovedst, and the winds of heaven Whether thou lovedst-after that forlorn Till, as befalls in this strange land of thine, But as it is, thou standest here for aye, Type of the gracious childhood of the south, Thy dark hair never fleck'd with threads of grey, No channell❜d lines under thy perfect mouth. Thou hast no grief, no selfishness at all. I cannot question thee-if thou couldst speak Through the dim light a rain of flowers and tears. Enough that, wrought by Vandyck's master hand, |