_Gia._ Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven. Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine, And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest. (_He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it to his lips._) _Ros._ Pray tell me, father, what is in the air? _Gia._ See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark, I'll drop a simple essence into each. _Ros._ My sense is flooded with perfume! _Gia._ Again. _Ros._ My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight It seems as it had won a birth of wings! _Gia._ Behold, now when I throw these jewels in, The glories of our art! _Ros._ A cloud of hues As beautiful as morning fills the air; And every breath I draw comes freighted with Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist, In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room. The very walls are melting from my sight, And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead! And on that gentle breeze did we not hear The song of birds and silvery waterfalls? And walk we not on green and flowery ground? Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this, The ducal gardens are not half so fair! Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams, Let us forever make our dwelling here. Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemed The paradise of our first parents, filled With countless angels whose celestial light Thrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song. Look how the long and level landscape gleams, And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up Into the blue. The very ground we tread Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven; An azure lawn is all about our feet, And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers, Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake. _Gia._ Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken Far down the shining pathway we have trod, And see behind us those enormous gates To which the world has given the name of Death; And note the least among yon knot of lights, And recognize your native orb, the earth! For we are spirits threading fields of space, Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars! But now, dear love, adieu--a flash from heaven-- A sudden glory in the silent air-- A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approach Of holier guides to take thee into keep. Behold them gliding down the azure hill Making the blue ambrosial with their light. Our paths are here divided. I must go Through other ways, by other forms attended. LINES TO AN IDEAL. BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY. I wandered on the lonely strand, A setting sun shone brightly there, And bathed in glory sea and land, And streamed in beauty through the air! A playful breeze the waters curled, Touched their light waves and passed them by, Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurled Were waving on the sunset sky! The bird had gone. The sun had set. His beams still tipped the hills and trees, And flung a rainbow radiance yet On clouds reflected in the seas!