But if Pre-Raphaelitism be true, not to the letter, but to the spirit of its principles,--if its artists remain unspoiled by flattery and success,--if they avoid mannerisms, conceits, and the affectations of originality,--if they can keep religious faith undimmed by the "world's slow stain"; then we may expect from the school such works of painting as have not been seen in past times,--works which shall be the forerunners of a new period of Art, and shall show what undreamed conquests yet lie open before it,--works which shall take us into regions of yet undiscovered beauty, and reveal to us more and more of the exhaustless love of God. THE ROMMANY GIRL. The sun goes down, and with him takes The coarseness of my poor attire; The fair moon mounts, and aye the flame Of gypsy beauty blazes higher. Pale northern girls! you scorn our race; You captives of your air-tight halls, Wear out in-doors your sickly days, But leave us the horizon walls. And if I take you, dames, to task, And say it frankly without guile, Then you are gypsies in a mask, And I the lady all the while. If, on the heath, under the moon, I court and play with paler blood, Me false to mine dare whisper none,-- One sallow horseman knows me good. Go, keep your cheek's rose from the rain, For teeth and hair with shopmen deal; My swarthy tint is in the grain, The rocks and forest know it real. The wild air bloweth in our lungs, The keen stars twinkle in our eyes, The birds gave us our wily tongues, The panther in our dances flies. You doubt we read the stars on high, Nathless we read your fortunes true; The stars may hide in the upper sky, But without glass we fathom you. THE CHARTIST'S COMPLAINT. Day! hast thou two faces, Making one place two places? One, by humble farmer seen, Chill and wet, unlighted, mean, Useful only, triste and damp, Serving for a laborer's lamp? Have the same mists another side, To be the appanage of pride, Gracing the rich man's wood and lake, His park where amber mornings break, And treacherously bright to show His planted isle where roses glow? O Day! and is your mightiness A sycophant to smug success? Will the sweet sky and ocean broad Be fine accomplices to fraud? O Sun! I curse thy cruel ray! Back, back to chaos, harlot Day! DAYS. Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb, like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts, after his will,-- Bread, kingdoms, stars, or sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. BRAHMA.