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. Ye Ruins, dust of empires vanish'd, Ye mountains, clad with countless years, From your great presence ne'er be banish'd Sad songs that live in earnest ears: Sad songs, the music of all sorrow, Profound and calm as night's blue deep: Accurst the dreams of any morrow When man will feel he cannot weep. J.S. * * * * * GOETHE Alas! on earth his marvels done, The noble German bosom lies, His fatherland's Athenian son, Amid the sage must largely rise! Amid the sage the generous race Of soaring thought and steadfast glow, He breathes no more who gave a grace To all our daily lot below. He gave to man's encumber'd hours The tuneful joys of truth serene, And twined our life's neglected flowers With nature's holiest evergreen. Alas! for him the soul of fire, For him of fancy's golden rays, For him whose aims ascended higher Than all that won a nation's praise! We pause and ask--Why gloom'd the grave For one of light so broadly mild? And wonder beauty could not save From death's deep night her eager child. But could the lyre be heard again, Its widow'd notes would seem to cry-- In all was he a man of men, For them to live, like them to die.