As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again,— So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. IDEAL. _Suggested by a female head in wax_, _of unknown date_, _but supposed to be either of the best Greek age_, _or a work of Raphael or Leonardo_. _It is now in the Lille Museum_. Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed, Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, And only on thy lips I find her smile. THE FAIRY’S GIFT. “Take short views.”—SYDNEY SMITH. The Fays that to my christ’ning came (For come they did, my nurses taught me), They did not bring me wealth or fame, ’Tis very little that they brought me. But one, the crossest of the crew, The ugly old one, uninvited, Said, “I shall be avenged on _you_, My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!” With magic juices did she lave Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure. Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave, _Hers_ is the present that I treasure! The bore whom others fear and flee, I do not fear, I do not flee him; I pass him calm as calm can be; I do not cut—I do not see him! And with my feeble eyes and dim, Where _you_ see patchy fields and fences, For me the mists of Turner swim— _My_ “azure distance” soon commences! Nay, as I blink about the streets Of this befogged and miry city, Why, almost every girl one meets Seems preternaturally pretty! “Try spectacles,” one’s friends intone; “You’ll see the world correctly through them.” But I have visions of my own, And not for worlds would I undo them. BENEDETTA RAMUS. AFTER ROMNEY.