Whence art thou bright Callirhöe, Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe? Art thou a daughter of this earth, That, like myself, had life and birth. And who will die like me? Methinks a soul so pure and clear Must breathe another atmosphere, Of thought more heavenly and high, More full of deep serenity, Than circles round this world of ours; I dare not think that thou shouldst die, Unto my soul, like summer showers To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May To the slow-budding woodbine bowers. Oh no! thou canst pass away. No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers! Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they, Untearful yet, were raised to pray, Fronting the mellow sunset glow Of summer eve in Paradise, Those bright founts whence forever flow Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies. It cannot be that Death Shall chill them with his winter breath,— What hath Death to do with thee, My seraph-winged Callirhöe? Whence art thou? From some other sphere, On which, throughout the moonless night, Gazing, we dream of beings bright, Such as we long for here,— Or art thou but a joy Elysian, Of my own inward sight, A glorious and fleeting vision, Habited in robes of light, The image of a blessed thing, Whom I might love with wondering, Yet feeling not a shade of doubt, And who would give her love to me, To twine my inmost soul about? No, no, these would not be like thee, Bright one, with auburn hair disparted On thy meek forehead maidenly, No, not like thee, my woman-hearted, My warm, my true Callirhöe! How may I tell the sunniness Of thy thought-beaming smile? Or how the soothing spell express, That bindeth me the while, Forth from thine eyes and features bright, Gusheth that flood of golden light? Like a sun-beam to my soul, Comes that trusting smile of thine, Lighting up the clouds of doubt, Till they shape themselves, and roll Like a glory all about The messenger divine.— For divine that needs must be That bringeth messages from thee. Madonna, gleams of smiles like this, Like a stream of music fell, In the silence of the night, On the soul of Raphael. Musing with a still delight, How meekly thou did’st bend and kiss The baby on thy knee, Who sported with the golden hair That fell in showers o’er him there, Looking up contentedly. Only the greatest souls can speak As much by smiling as by tears. Thine strengthens me when I am weak, And gladdens into hopes my fears. The path of life seems plain and sure, Thy purity doth make me pure And holy, when thou let’st arise That mystery divine, That silent music in thine eyes. Seldom tear visits cheek of thine, Seldom a tear escapes from thee, My Hebé, my Callirhöe!