Alone should glisten in the poet's hair;
Yet did himself, with spirit unreclaimed
From first allegiance to those early gods,
Lead up to Golgotha's most awful height
With more than epic pomp the new Crusade,
But let him range the bright angelic host
On either hill—no matter. By his grave
All gentle hearts should bow them down and weep
For where a hero and a saint have died,
Or where a poet sung prophetical,
Dying as greatly as they greatly lived,
To give memorial to all after-times,
Of lofty worth and courage undismayed;
There, in mute reverence, all devoutly kneel,
In homage of the thorn and laurel wreath,
That were at once their glory and their pang!
THE NEW LOVE.
Love, not the simple youth that whilom wound
Himself about young Psyche's heart, looked round
Olympus with a cold and roving eye,
That had accustomed been to victory.
It rested on a Goddess, noblest far
Of all that noble throng—glorious star—
Venus Urania. And from that hour
He loved her. Ah! to his resistless power
Even she, the holy one, did yield at last,
And in his daring arms he held her fast.
A new and beauteous Love from that embrace
Had birth, which to the mother owed his grace
And purity of soul, whilst from his sire
He borrowed all his passion, all his fire.
Him ever, where the gracious Muses be,
Thou'lt surely find. Such sweet society
Is his delight, and his sharp-pointed dart
Doth rouse within men's breasts the love of Art.
