LINES ON A PICTURE BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED "THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS." CHARLES LAMB. WHILE young John runs to greet The greater infant's feet, The mother standing by with trembling passion Of devout admiration, Beholds the engaging mystic play and pretty adoration; Nor knows as yet the full event Of these so low beginnings, From whence we date our winnings; But wonders at the intent Of those new rites and what that strange child-worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy- A glory, an amenity, Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity, As if he surely knew All the blest wonders should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovereign schemes and divine rid dles there. THE ESCURIAL. THEOPHILE GAUTIER. TRANSLATION OF CHARLOTTE FISKE BAtes. SET as a challenge at the mountain's side, Three hundred feet from earth uplifting thus Huge elephant, the cupola defaced, Old Pharaoh built not for his mummy's tomb ODE TO A GRECIAN URN. JOHN KEATS. THOU still unravished bride of quietness! Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme; What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities, or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the vales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes, play onNot to the sensual ear, but more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone! Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor even can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal, yet do not grieve She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, Forever wilt thou love and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! More happy, happy love! Forever panting and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth, beauty, - that is all 66 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know!" GREECE. LORD BYRON. HE who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The last of danger and distress, Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), And marked the mild angelic air, The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; That parts not quite with parting breath. THE ANTIQUE AT PARIS. FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. WHAT the Greek wrought, the vaunting Frank may gain, And waft the pomp of Hellas to the Seine. |