—­Down the eyes of the maiden sank from the Thunderer’s look,
  Pale in her shame and terror, and yet with delight she shook
  Swift on her brow she felt a crown by the God bestow’d,
  Shading her face that now with a hope too lively glow’d. 
  Bending the Sculptor stood who wrought the work divine,
  Godlike in voice he spake—­Ever, oh, maid be mine!

J.S.

* * * * *

A ROMAN IDYL.

  Oh! blame not, friend, with scoff unfeeling,
    The gentle tale of grief and wrong,
  Which, all the pain of life revealing,
    Yet teaches peace by thoughtful song.

  The landscape round us wide expanded
    As ere was heard the name of Rome;
  And Rome, though fallen, our souls commanded,
    In this her empire’s earliest home.

  Her brightness beam’d on each far mountain,
    Her life made green the grass we trode,
  Her memory haunted still the fountain,
    And spread her shadows o’er the sod.

  Her ruins told their tale of glory,
    Decreed to that eternal sky;
  And through that ancient grove, her story
    With sibyl whisper seem’d to sigh.

  The pile her wealthiest mourner builded,
    In glimpse we caught through ilex gloom—­
  Metella’s Tower, by sunshine gilded,
    That beams alike on feast or tomb.

  And on this plain, not yet benighted,
    ’Mid awful ages mouldering there,
  Young hands in new-bloom flowers delighted,
    Young eyes look’d bright in sunniest air.

  Till we, Viterbo’s wine-cup quaffing,
    Which fairer lips refused to grace,
  Could win by jest those lips to laughing,
    And veil’d in folly wisdom’s face.

  But say, my friend, thou sage mysterious,
    What Nymph, what Muse disown’d the strain
  Which bade our heedless mirth be serious,
    And woke our ears to nobler pain?

  That region grave of plain and highland,
    With Rome’s grey ruin strewn around,
  Is not a soft Calypso’s island,
    Nor fades at Truth’s evoking sound.

  High thoughts in words of quiet beauty
    Accord with visions grand as these,
  And song’s imperishable duty
    Has holier aims than but to please.

  By word and image deeply wedded,
    By cadence apt and varied rhyme,
  To rouse the soul in sloth imbedded,
    And tune its powers to life sublime.

  By loftier shows of man’s large being
    Than man’s dim actual hour displays,
  To clear our eyes for purer seeing,
    And nerve the flagging spirit’s gaze.

  By strains of bold heroic pleasure,
    And action strong as thought conceives,
  By many a doom-resounding measure
    That best our selfish woes relieves;

  By these to stir, by these to brighten,
    By these to lift the soul from earth,
  The Poet dares our joys to frighten,
    And thrills the dirge of lazy mirth.