Yet why, of one who loved thee not, command Thy counterfeit, for other men to see, When God himself did on my heart for me Thy face, like Christ’s upon the napkin, brand? O how much subtler than a painter’s hand Is love to render back the truth of thee! My soul should be thy glass in time to be, And in my thought thine effigy should stand. Yet, lest the churlish critics of that age Should flout my praise, and deem a lover’s rage Could gild a virtue and a grace exceed, I bid thine image here confront my page, That men may look upon thee as they read, And cry: “Such eyes a better poet need!” This has art and charm, but in contrast note the impassioned nobility of utterance which imbues the one that follows. Here are lines of pure emotion and beauty: We needs must be divided in the tomb, For I would die among the hills of Spain, And o’er the treeless, melancholy plain Await the coming of the final gloom. But thou—O pitiful!—wilt find scant room Among thy kindred by the northern main, And fade into the drifting mist again, The hemlocks’ shadow, or the pines’ perfume. Let gallants lie beside their ladies’ dust In one cold grave, with mortal love inurned; Let the sea part our ashes, if it must, The souls fled thence which love immortal burned, For they were wedded without bond of lust, And nothing of our heart to earth returned. Such sonnets as this mark Mr. Santayana as a master of this form, and while his other work has value, it is as a sonneteer that he has made his really individual contribution to literature. VI JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY A BEAUTIFUL and delicate art is that of Miss Josephine Preston Peabody, but somewhat elusive of analysis, so much is its finer part dependent upon the intuition which one brings to it; for Miss Peabody is a poet-mystic, sensitive to impressions from which the grosser part has slipped away,—impressions which come to her clothed upon with a more ethereal vesture than the work-a-day garment of thought,—and while she would fain reveal their hidden import, they often elude her and grow remote in the telling, as if fearful of betraying too openly their secret.