Painted By Velasquez.[430]

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky, Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe, And by the weight of mortal agony Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow, My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look’d once more--and, as the virtue shed Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray Of victory from thy mien; and round thy head, The halo, melting spirit-like away, Seem’d of the very soul’s bright rising born, To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed in mute reverence woman’s earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming, With quenchless faith, and deep love’s fervency, Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil’d shrine, About the form, so mournfully divine!

Oh! let thine image, as e’en then it rose, Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear, Making itself a temple of repose, Beyond the breath of human hope or fear! A holy place, where through all storms may lie One living beam of dayspring from on high.

This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

“Could we but keep our spirits to that height, We might be happy; but this clay will sink Its spark immortal.”--Byron.

Return, my thoughts--come home! Ye wild and wing’d! what do ye o’er the deep? And wherefore thus the abyss of time o’ersweep, As birds the ocean-foam?

Swifter than shooting-star, Swifter than lances of the northern-light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime, Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, By temples of old time:

Through the north’s ancient halls, Where banners thrill’d of yore--where harp-strings rung; But grass waves now o’er those that fought and sung, Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim, Where o’er the leaves dread magic seems to brood; And sometimes on the haunted solitude Rises the pilgrim’s hymn:

Or where some fountain lies, With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man’s lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts--return! Cares wait your presence in life’s daily track, And voices, not of music, call you back-- Harsh voices, cold and stem!

Oh, no! return ye not! Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be! Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, O’er many a haunted spot.

Go! seek the martyr’s grave, Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin’d cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave!

Go! visit cell and shrine, Where woman hath endured!--thro’ wrong, thro’ scorn, Uncheer’d by fame, yet silently upborne By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death! Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart’s boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath! Higher, and yet more high--! Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings--mount, mount! Your way Is through eternity!

THE WATER-LILY.

“The Water-Lilies, that are serene in the calm clear water, but no less serene among the black and scowling waves.”--Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life.

Oh! beautiful thou art, Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen! Crowning the depths, as with the light serene Of a pure heart.

Bright lily of the wave! Rising in fearless grace with every swell, Thou seem’st as if a spirit meekly brave Dwelt in thy cell:

Lifting alike thy head Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, Whether with foam or pictured azure spread The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower, The gentle and the firm! thus bearing up To the blue sky that alabaster cup, As to the shower?

Oh! love is most like thee, The love of woman! quivering to the blast Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, Midst life’s dark sea.

And faith--oh, is not faith Like thee, too, lily! springing into light, Still buoyantly, above the billows’ might, Through the storm’s breath?

Yes! link’d with such high thought, Flower! let thine image in my bosom lie; Till something there of its own purity And peace be wrought--

Something yet more divine Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed Forth from thy breast upon the river’s bed. As from a shrine.