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V.

TO THE GENIUS OF ART.

[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 Raphael 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.

VI.

TO HEBE.

[A STATUETTE ON THE 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 Ganymèdes won thy high celestial place.

VII.

TO A BUST OF HOMER.

[STANDING ON MY DESK.
K.]

HOMER, thou art not dead!

Thou canst not die

While beats one heart on this terrestrial sphere,

That quickens to the spell of Poesy,

Or, Fancy's smile illumes its chambers drear.

Three thousand years have watched thy steady light

Guiding the minstrel band to Fame's high goal,

As Cynosura through the treacherous night,
Directs the mariner o'er the dangerous shoal.
Those filmy orbs emmove with Genius' fire;
Those pale lips speak from out the mighty past,
Of Helen's beauty, and Achilles' ire,

And Ilium's tears, and sighs, and struggles vast,
Until I hear the Grecian shouts resound,

And Troy's proud walls come tumbling to the ground.

VIII.

TO MY BOOKS.

HALLOWED Companions! tutors ! ministers !
To ye I bring my overburdened heart,
Bare its deep wounds with many sighs and tears,
And bless ye while ye soothe its burning smart.
If falsehood, envy, hate, or death surround me,
Ye fortify and make my spirit strong-

If sickness fling her pallid mantle round me,
Ye speed the weary-winged hours along ;
If pleasure lure me to the festive hall-
Nature too long detain me by the brink,
Ye, like kind, watchful parents, gently call
Me hither, at your sapient founts to drink.—
Oh! who would spurn the shrine which Wisdom tends-
Oh! who could fail to love such pure and constant friends!

IX.

TO MY GUITAR.

So dear a friend as thou I never knew—

Such truth, and faith, and love, and sympathy
From evanescent hearts I never drew,

As I have drawn from thy soul-melody.

When I am sad thou chant'st some Paynim story

Until my woe is lost in woes of eld;

When I am glad, thou sing'st of knightly glory,
Till heart and brain in magic spell are held.
And here, all day, thy voice my spirit drinks,
While reeling rapture steals along my veins,
Till every pulse inebriated sinks

Beneath the power of thy delicious strains;
And softly beatific harp-notes roll,

And seraphs sing around the altars of my soul.

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