English

A nameless power lives in thy verse,
A gleam of things divine!
And with meek looks and clasped hands
My spirit bows to thine.

Now beams thy soul-light on the heart,
Like morn-rise, soft and tender;
And now in wild, impassioned fire
Breaks forth with startling splendor.

We say, when gently steal along
Thy light, love-breathing numbers,
That Song's sweet angel whispering bends

Again thou comest like a star of brightness, —
As pure and tender, as serene and fair;
I hear thy tones of love, or joyous lightness!
I breathe thy presence like a balmy air!

They say that genius' sacred fount is gushing
Within thy soul of tenderness and truth;
That glory's sunlight even now is flushing
The still and dewy morning of thy youth.

Thou little dreamest that perchance above thee
Fame's envied chaplet trembles in the air,
While crowned with roses in the hearts that love thee,

They told me, when I knew thee first,
Thou wert not made for loving,
That next St. Valentine's would see
Thy truant heart a-roving; —

That thou wouldst weary of my love,
Turn from me, and for ever!
That I would meekly bow and weep,
But chide the rover never.

Ah! those were mournful prophecies,
To cloud the sky of youth;
And thou and I, we little thought

We need not to be told thou art
Of Rome's own glorious race;
We hear her song breathe in thy voice,
In thy form behold her grace,
And her pure and classic beauty
In thy rare and thoughtful face.

That speaks her ancient honor,
Her proud immortal dower;
It tells of her sad present,
Yet foretells her triumph hour, —
Hath the grandeur of her sorrow,
And the glory of her power.

We never met; yet to my soul
Thy name hath been a voice of singing,
And ever to thy glorious lays
The echoes of my heart are ringing.

We never met; yet is thy face,
Thy pictured face, before me now;
Strangely, like life, I almost see
The dark curls wave upon thy brow!

This face reveals that poet-life,
Still deepening, still rising higher,
A breathing from thy soul of song,

Moore tells us, in his dulcet lays,
A damsel, in the good old days,
Fell most imprudently in love
With some stray seraph from above;
And once — so runs the tragic story —
This youth revealed his perfect glory,
Which, bursting forth in lurid flashes,
Consumed that beauteous maid to ashes!

There was a maid of modern times,
Who warning took from these sad rhymes,
And dreaming not an angel might
With amorous sighs about her hover,
And asking not, and caring not,

As Linnaeus wrote his name in flowers,
Thus, Artist, shall it ever be
That lily brows, carnation cheeks,
And rose-bud lips shall speak of thee!
As students of the stars have written
Their names upon the midnight skies,
Thus thou thy living name hast traced
On beauty's heaven, in starry eyes!

How like soft skies that bend at even
Italia's vales above,
Thy spirit's pure and tranquil heaven,
Illumed with stars of love!
Thy chosen one, no longer bound
Art's pilgrim, o'er the sea,
With Nature's self at home, hath found
His Italy in thee.

O faithful friend! O gentle wife!
I know I may not and to-day
One drop unto thy " wine of life, "
Of love, or happiness, or pride;
I know 't is only mine to lay
One rose-leaf on the mantling tide.

O, what without thy sunny face,
Lit with the day-spring from above,
Were thine abode of song and grace, —
Art's fairy realm, joy's resting-place, —
Where now a sacred trio meet,
Power, innocence, contentment sweet,
Genius and infancy and love!

Tender and pale the young moon shone, —
The time of dreams stole o'er the earth,
Stilling the greenwood's sounds of mirth,
Hushing the wild birds to repose,
Save the nightingale, who warbled on,
Leaning his breast against a rose;
'T was then from out a forest bower
Through shadows peered one wakeful flower,
Her azure robe with night-dews wet,
Watching a star through the purple even;
And the star, though shining in highest heaven,
Smiled down on the violet;
For a fairy mirror the flower held up, —