* * * * *

THE ANTIQUE AT PARIS.

    What the Grecian arts created,
    May the victor Gaul, elated,
      Bear with banners to his strand.[45]
    In museums many a row,
    May the conquering showman show
      To his startled Fatherland!

    Mute to him, they crowd the halls,
    Ever on their pedestals
      Lifeless stand they!—­He alone
    Who alone, the Muses seeing,
    Clasps—­can warm them into being;
    The Muses to the Vandal—­stone!

     [45] To the shore of the Seine.

* * * * *

THE POETRY OF LIFE.

    “Who would himself with shadows entertain,
    Or gild his life with lights that shine in vain,
    Or nurse false hopes that do but cheat the true? 
    Though with my dream my heaven should be resign’d—­
    Though the free-pinion’d soul that now can dwell
    In the large empire of the Possible,
    This work-day life with iron chains may bind,
    Yet thus the mastery o’er ourselves we find,
    And solemn duty to our acts decreed,
    Meets us thus tutor’d in the hour of need,
    With a more sober and submissive mind! 
    How front Necessity—­yet bid thy youth
    Shun the mild rule of life’s calm sovereign, Truth.”

    So speak’st thou, friend, how stronger far than I;
    As from Experience—­that sure port serene—­
    Thou look’st; and straight, a coldness wraps the sky,
    The summer glory withers from the scene,
    Scared by the solemn spell; behold them fly,
    The godlike images that seem’d so fair! 
    Silent the playful Muse—­the rosy Hours
    Halt in their dance; and the May-breathing flowers
    Pall from the sister-Graces’ waving hair. 
    Sweet-mouth’d Apollo breaks his golden lyre,
    Hermes, the wand with many a marvel rife;—­
    The veil, rose-woven by the young Desire
    With dreams, drops from the hueless cheeks of Life. 
    The world seems what it is—­A Grave! and Love
    Casts down the bondage wound his eyes above,
    And sees!—­He sees but images of clay
    Where he dream’d gods; and sighs—­and glides away. 
    The youngness of the Beautiful grows old,
    And on thy lips the bride’s sweet kiss seems cold;
    And in the crowd of joys—­upon thy throne
    Thou sitt’st in state, and harden’st into stone.

* * * * *

CALEB STUKELY.

PART XII.

THE PARSONAGE.