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Yes, 'tis my Caaba—a shrine below,

Where my soul sits within its house of clay,

Listing the steps of Angels come and go—

Sweet missioned heralds from the realms of day.

One brings me rays from regions of the sun,

One comes to warn me of some pending dart,

One brings a laurel leaf for work well done,

Another, whispers from a kindred heart.—

Oh! this I would not change for all the gold

That lies beneath the Sacramento's waves,

For all the jewels Indian coffers hold,

For all the pearls in Oman's starry caves—

The lessons of all pedagogues are naught

To those I learn within this holy fane of Thought. in.


Here blind old Homer teaches lofty song;
The Lesbian sings of Cupid's pinions furled,
And how the heart is withered up by wrong;
Dante depictures an infernal world,
Wide opening many a purgatorial aisle;
Torquato rings the woes of Palestine,
Alphonso's rage, and Leonora's smile—
Love, beauty, genius, glory all divine;
Milton depaints the bliss of Paradise,
Then flings apart the ponderous gates of hell,
"Where Satan on the fiery billow lies,
"With head uplift," above his army fell,—
And Avon's bard, surpassing all in art,
Unlocks the portals of the human heart.


TO THE GENIUS OF LITERATUEE. [a Statuette On Tub Mantel In My Study.]

Thy little foot uplifted on thy knee,

Thine eyes intently bent upon thy book,

As in a transcendental revery,

Ne'er deigning round my study-room to look,

There thou dost mutely sit from day to day,

Lost in the dreamy realm of fantasy.

Yet o'er my heart thou hold'st a mighty sway,

And sagest lessons dost impart to me

Of art, and beauty, and the wealth of lore;

The unfathomable seas of mind and love;

The meed for lofty effort held in store,

Till aspiration lifts my soul above,

And I am drunk in intellectual joy—

My charming, beautiful, mute marble boy.

[a Statuette On The Mantel.]

Thou art a beam from God—the brightest ray
That heaven hath earthward sent to cheer the soul
And animate it in its house of clay,
With dreams of light, and life, and glory's goal.
Here, mutely worshipping, I gaze on thee,
Till nascent haloes dawn around thy brow,
And from the portals of eternity,
The laurelled dead, returning, round thee bow.
There bent o'er Farnarina's sainted face,
Feeding his soul, eternal Kaphael kneels,
As if in its pale hues he still can trace
Beauty, surpassing all that Heaven reveals:
Angelo—Titian—all the immortal great,
Glide in and at thy feet for inspiration wait.


[a Statuette Ox Tuf Bookcase.]

Goddess of Beauty, and eternal youth!
Stray spark from Eden, ere the serpent came,
And fastened on the human heart his tooth,
And earth assumed a different hue and name!
Lovely ideal! Beatific beam!
For which Canova made a house of clay!
No more thou art to me a Poet's dream.
Such life and light thou shedd'st upon my way,
Such living freshness breath'st upon the flowers
That droop beside the fountain of my soul—
So much dost speak of Bacchanalian hours,
How proudly thou did'st bear the nectar bowl,
How one ill step o'erwhelmed thee with disgrace,
And Ganymedes won thy high celestial place.

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