IV. PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS. All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red, Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye, Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy Of ruder coronals for that meek head. And thus it was! a diadem of thorn Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers, To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn! And we repine, for whom that cup He took, O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook! V. ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST. An Ecce Homo, by Leonardo da Vinci. I met that image on a mirthful day Of youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise, Awful, tho' meek; and now, that from the strings Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay; Now, that around the deep life of my mind, Affections, deathless as itself, have twined, Oft does the pale bright vision still float by; But more divinely sweet, and speaking now Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity! 210 ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS. And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency; Gathering, like incense round some dim-veiled shrine, About the Form, so mournfully divine! Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. Could we but keep our spirits to that height, BYRON. RETURN, my thoughts, come home! Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep, As birds the ocean foam ? Swifter than shooting star, Swifter than lances of the northern light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar! Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time: Through the north's ancient halls, Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp strings rung, But grass waves now o'er those that fought and Hearth-light hath left their walls! Through forests old and dim, sung Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood, And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim's hymn: Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleam ing! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man's lost paradise! |