Lovely was the death
Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power
He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed
Manifest Godhead, melting into day
What floating mists of dark idolatry
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire;
And first by Fear uncharmed the drowsèd Soul.
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel
Dim recollections; and thence soared to Hope.
Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good
The Eternal dooms for His immortal sons.
From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love
Attracted and absorbed: and centered there

Stand close around, ye Stygian set,
With Dirce in one boat convey'd,
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old, and she a shade.

"Artemidora! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,
And stand beside thee, ready to convey
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow.
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness
Away, and voices like thine own come nigh,
Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace.'
Artemidora sigh'd, and would have press'd
The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.
Fate's shears were over her dark hair unseen
While thus Elpenor spake: he look'd into
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile

Tanagra! think not I forget
Thy beautifully storeyed streets;
Be sure my memory bathes yet
In clear Thermodon, and yet greets
The blythe and liberal shepherd-boy
Whose sunny bosom swells with joy
When we accept his matted rushes
Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.

I promise to bring back with me
What thou with transport wilt receive,
The only proper gift for thee,
Of which no mortal shall bereave
In later times thy mouldering walls,
Until the last old turret falls;
A crown, a crown from Athens won,

Beauty! thou art a wanderer on the earth,
And hast no temple in the fairest isle
Or city over-sea, where wealth and Mirth
And all the Graces, all the Muses, smile.

Yet these have always nurst thee with such fond,
Such lasting love, that they have followed up
Thy steps thro' every land, and placed beyond
The reach of thirsty Time thy nectar-cup.

Thou art a wanderer, Beauty! like the rays
That now upon the platan, now upon
The sleepy lake, glance quick or idly gaze,
And now are manifold and now are none.

The kite, completed thus, is borne along
By some blest leaders of the shining throng,
Who to the fields elate with joy repair,
And wait the blast that wafts her in the air.
So when some new-built ship is launched for sail,
And only tarries for the prosp'rous gale,
Th' impatient crew each rising breeze explore,
And long to see her sail, and quit the shore.
Now from the central string extends the line,
And for the flight lie harnessed rolls of twine.
This takes the string, remote his partner stands,
And holds the kite, impatient, in his hands.

The herdboy returns, none too early—
beside the stream, heavy wind and rain!
Looking behind—a mother's love for her baby:
it is running after her, but can't seem to catch up.

On the mountains of Judea,
Like the chariot of the Lord,
Thou wert lifted in thy spirit
By the uncreated Word;
Gifts and graces flowed upon thee
In a sweet celestial strife,
And the growing of the Burden
Was the lightening of thy life.

And what wonders have been in thee
All the day and all the night,
While the angels fell before thee,
To adore the Light of Light.
While the glory of the Father
Hath been in thee as a home,
And the sceptre of creation
Hath been wielded in thy womb.

And the sweet strains of the Psalmist

Like the dawning of the morning,
On the mountain's golden heights;
Like the breaking of the moonbeams,
On the gloom of cloudy nights;
Like a secret told by angels,
Getting known upon the earth—
Is the Mother's expectation
Of Messias' speedy birth.

Thou wert happy, blessed Mother,
With the very bliss of heaven,
Since the angel's salutation
In thy raptured ear was given;
Since the Ave of that midnight,
When thou wert anointed Queen,
Like a river overflowing
Hath the grace within thee been.

Coy Nature, (which remain'd, thô aged grown,
A beauteous Virgin still, injoy'd by none,
Nor seen unveil'd by any one,)
When Harvey's violent passion she did see,
Began to tremble and to flee,
Took Sanctuary, like Daphne, in a Tree:
There Daphne's Lover stopt, and thought it much
The very Leaves of her to touch:
But Harvey, our Apollo, stopt not so,
Into the Bark and Root he after he did go:
No smallest Fibres of a Plant,
For which the Eye-beams point doth sharpness want,
His passage after her withstood;