« FöregåendeFortsätt »
IT IS MY CAABA.
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 HOMER TEACHES.
Here blind old Homer teaches lofty song;
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.
TO THE GENIUS OF ART.
Thou art a beam from God—the brightest ray
Goddess of Beauty, and eternal youth!