IV.

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.

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,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,

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
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,

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,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of day-spring from on high.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.

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!