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THE PALACE OF ART.
Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
Not less than truth design'd.
********Or the maid-mother by a crucifix.
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm.
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.
Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
with white roses, slept Saint Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.
Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.
