Spirits, starry Spirits, they,
That attend the radiant day,
When the freed soul burst the clay
Of its prison wall:
Distant visions they appear;
For we only dream of, here,
Things etherial.
But one glideth gently nigh,
Human love within her eye,—
Love that is too true to die,—
That is heaven's own.
Let the angel's first look dwell
Where the mortal loved so well,
Ere yet life was flown.
To that angel-look was given
All that ever yet from heaven
Purified the earthly leaven
Of a beating heart.
She hath breathed of hope and love,
As they warm the world above;—
She must now depart.
Aye, I say that love hath power
On the spirit's dying hour,
Sharing its immortal dower,
Mastering its doom:
For that fair and mystic dream
By the Sorgia's hallowed stream,
Kindled from the tomb.
II.
The Banquet of Aspasia and Pericles.
Waken'd by the small white fingers,
Which its chords obey,
On the air the music lingers
Of a low and languid lay
From a soft Ionian lyre;—
Purple curtains hang the walls,
And the dying daylight falls
O'er the marble pedestals
Of the pillars that aspire,
In honour of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
There are statues white and solemn,
Olden gods are they;
And the wreath'd Corinthian column
Guardeth their array.
Lovely that acanthus wreath,
Drooping round the graceful girth:
All the fairest things of earth,
Art's creations have their birth—
Still from love and death.
They are gather'd for Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.
