“True Grecian, she!” the sister of Elbert cried; “Each morning brings her fresh from shrines of art, All flush’d, a priestess from an oracle, To sanctify us grosser mortals here With vague suggestions! mutter’d mysteries! Ah me, to hear her rave once!” Edith smiled, “And eyes that see are blest!—and which sees most— My worship, or your wonder? Know you, friend,” She turn’d to me and asked,—“this critic’s ground?— The Sistine Babe it was, we spoke of Him. Because I find art’s glass, when rightly held, Revealing through the real the truth ideal, I said: ‘I seem to see not only Him, The Babe, but back of Him, His heavenly home. I seem to enter this—His handmaid there, And there commune until my soul is blest.’ I said: ‘From thence my spirit seems to come, And feel its arms to be the throne of Christ. And this,’ I said, ‘is wrought for me by art. Some hold that souls transmigrate after death, But art,’ I said, ‘makes mine transmigrate here.’ For this you hear of raving. Do I err? The soul of feeling is in thought, not so? Then one, to feel refresh’d, must think she bathes In rills that reach her from the freshest springs.” XVII. “Ah,” said the sister of Elbert, soothingly, “Our soaring lark here bathes in each bright pool. So be not frighten’d off; her plumes but shake A sprinkling from the bath they had to-day.” “Some please the world,” said Edith; “I, myself,— My soul, I mean; nor long to clip that soul To suit mere worldling’s notions. Courting crowds, A soul lives crampt; but if one speak the truth, Crowds leave—good riddance!—place is clear’d for friends.” “Clear’d verily!” her sister cried, “Long live These household pet-gods of our modern homes, Like sprites to fright the stranger off! Now own The fear you felt. It would appease her so!” XVIII. To this rose no reply to Edith’s lips. I mark’d, instead, a gentle trembling there, Like ripples roused upon a tranquil sea That rise from deep, unseen disturbances. “They fail to read her rightly,” thought I, then— You know no man can flinch it: woman’s grief, If there be any manhood left in him, Will rouse his efforts to bespeak her peace— I found myself her soul’s expositor To clear the channel of its overflow.