And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone, (Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurl’d) Still sit as on the fragment of a world; Surviving all, majestic and alone? What tho’ the Spirits of the North, that swept Rome from the earth, when in her pomp she slept, Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk Deep in the dust mid tower and temple sunk; Soon to subdue mankind ’twas thine to rise. Still, still unquell’d thy glorious energies! Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught[1] Bright revelations of the Good they sought; By thee that long-lost spell[2] in secret given, To draw down Gods, and lift the soul to Heav’n! [1] In the gardens of the Vatican, where it was placed by Julius II, it was long the favourite study of those great men, to whom we owe the revival of the arts, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and the Caracci. [2] Once in the possession of Praxiteles, if we may believe an antient epigram on the Gnidian Venus. Analecta Vet. Poetarum, III. 200. TO ——[1] Ah! little thought she, when, with wild delight, By many a torrent’s shining track she flew, When mountain-glens and caverns full of night O’er her young mind divine enchantment threw, That in her veins a secret horror slept, That her light footsteps should be heard no more, That she should die—nor watch’d, alas, nor wept By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore. Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew The kindred, forms her closing eye requir’d. There didst thou stand—there, with the smile she knew. She mov’d her lips to bless thee, and expir’d. And now to thee she comes; still, still the same As in the hours gone unregarded by! To thee, how chang’d, comes as she ever came; Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye! Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, By the way-side she shed her parting tears— For ever lovely in the light of Youth? [1] On the death of her sister. WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER. There, in that bed so closely curtain’d round, Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, A father sleeps! Oh hush’d be every sound! Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! He stirs—yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams Long o’er his smooth and settled pillow rise; Till thro’ the shutter’d pane the morning streams, And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies. TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE. On thee, blest youth, a father’s hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. As on she moves with hesitating grace, She wins assurance from his soothing voice; And, with a look the pencil could not trace, Smiles thro’ her blushes, and confirms the choice. Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame! To thee she turns—forgive a virgin’s fears! To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim; Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!