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With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain.
So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves ;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
By self-devotion and by self-restraint,
On unknown errands of the Paraclete,
Fail of the nimbus which the artists paint
And are in their completeness incomplete !
The lily of Florence blossoming in stone,
A vision, a delight, and a desire,
That in the night of ages bloomed alone,
But wanting still the glory of the spire. Charlemagne may be called by pre-eminence the monarch of farmers. According to the German tradition, in seasons of great abundance bis spirit crosses the Rhine on a golden bridge at Bingen, and blesses the cornfields and the vineyards.
With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes,
Like Farinata from his fiery tomb.
Yet in thy heart what human sympathies,
The tender stars their clouded lamps relume!
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent-walls, in golden streaks.
And, as he asks what there the stranger seeks,
'Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep
My little lambs are folded like the flocks;
Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep;
Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,
Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.
Who cries to me: “Remember Barmecide,
And tremble to be happy with the rest."
I dare not ask; I know not what is best ;
THE EVENING STAR.
Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,
The Evening Star, the star of love and rest!
Of all her radiant garments, and reclines
O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!
My morning and my evening star of love
My best and gentlest lady! even thus,
Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,
A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Far off the noises of the world retreat.
Become an undistinguishable roar.
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers !
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong, What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;