Silence seemed to start in space
When first the bell's harsh toll
Rang for my lady's soul.
Vitality was hell; her grace
The shadow of a dream:
Things then did scarcely seem:
Oblivion's stroke fell like a mace:
As a tree that's just hewn
I dropped, in a dead swoon,
And lay a long time cold upon my face.
Earth had one quarter turned before
My miserable fate
Pressed on with its whole weight.
My sense came back; and, shivering o'er,
I felt a pain to bear
The sun's keen cruel glare;
It seemed not warm as heretofore.
Oh, never more its rays
Will satisfy my gaze.
No more; no more; oh, never any more.
The Love of Beauty
John Boccaccio, love's own squire, deep sworn
In service to all beauty, joy, and rest,--
When first the love-earned royal Mary press'd,
To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn,--
'Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn
By longings unattainable, address'd
To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest
Some madness in his brain had thence been born.
The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:--
Such as have watched the battle-rank'd array
Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in
Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they
May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning:
But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay?
The Subject in Art
(No.
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