On Retzsch’S Design Of The Angel Of Death.[441]

Well might thine awful image thus arise With that high calm upon thy regal brow, And the deep, solemn sweetness in those eyes, Unto the glorious artist! Who but thou The fleeting forms of beauty can endow For him with permanence? who make those gleams Of brighter life, that colour his lone dreams, Immortal things? Let others trembling bow, Angel of Death! before thee;--not to those Whose spirits with Eternal Truth repose, Art thou a fearful shape! And oh! for me, How full of welcome would thine aspect shine, Did not the cords of strong affection twine So fast around my soul, it cannot spring to thee!

This sonnet was suggested by the following passage out of Mrs Jameson’s Visits and Sketches at Home and Abroad, in a description she gives of a visit paid to the artist Retzsch, near Dresden:--“Afterwards he placed upon his easel a wondrous face which made me shrink back--not with terror, for it was perfectly beautiful,--but with awe, for it was unspeakably fearful: the hair streamed back from the pale brow--the orbs of sight appeared at first two dark, hollow, unfathomable spaces, like those in a skull; but when I drew nearer and looked attentively, two lovely living eyes looked at me again out of the depth of the shadow, as if from the bottom of an abyss. The mouth was divinely sweet, but sad, and the softest repose rested on every feature. This, he told me, was the Angel of Death.”

REMEMBRANCE OF NATURE.

O Nature! thou didst rear me for thine own, With thy free singing-birds and mountain-brooks; Feeding my thoughts in primrose-haunted nooks, With fairy fantasies and wood-dreams lone; And thou didst teach me every wandering tone Drawn from thy many-whispering trees and waves, And guide my steps to founts and sparry caves, And where bright mosses wove thee a rich throne Midst the green hills: and now that, far estranged From all sweet sounds and odours of thy breath, Fading I lie, within my heart unchanged, So glows the love of thee, that not for death Seems that pure passion’s fervour--but ordain’d To meet on brighter shores thy majesty unstain’d.

FLIGHT OF THE SPIRIT.

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way? What solemn region first upon thy sight Shall break, unveil’d for terror or delight? What hosts, magnificent in dread array, My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay, After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest! The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest, Sees but a few green branches o’er him play, And through their parting leaves, by fits reveal’d, A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried. Thou art that bird!--of what beyond thee lies Far in the untrack’d, immeasurable skies, Knowing but this--that thou shalt find thy Guide?

FLOWERS.

Welcome, O pure and lovely forms! again Unto the shadowy stillness of my room! For not alone ye bring a joyous train Of summer-thoughts attendant on your bloom-- Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom, Of the low murmurs filling mossy dells, Of stars that look down on your folded bells Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove Like sudden music: more than this ye bring-- Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing Broods o’er the sufferer drawing fever’d breath, Whether the couch be that of life or death.