Puslapio vaizdai
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But lo! with the light he repented his scorning,
For an earthquake had shattered the whole ere the

morning; Of the pearl-coloured dome there was left but a ruin,But an arch as a home for the ring-dove to coo in.

Shaft, turret and spire-all were tumbled and crumbled; And the soul of the Caliph within him was humbled ; And he bowed in the dust :-" There is none great but

Allah ! I will build Him a Mosque,”—said the Caliph Abdallah.

And the Caliph has gone to his fathers for ever,
But the Mosque that he builded shines still by the river;
And the pilgrims up-stream to this day slacken sail if
They catch the first gleam of the “Mosque of the Caliph.”

IN THE BELFRY.

WRITTEN UNDER RETHEL'S “DEATH, THE FRIEND.”

"OL Is it night, or daylight yet?

Somewhere the birds seem singing still,
Though surely now the sun has set.

TOLL!

Toll ! But who tolls the Bell once more?
He must have climbed the parapet.
Did I not bar the belfry door?

Who can it be ?—the Bernardine,
That used to pray with me of yore ?
No,-for the monk was not so lean.

This must be He who, legend saith,
Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien
And tolls a knell.—This shape is Death !

Good-bye, old Bell! So let it be.
How strangely now I draw my breath!
What is this haze of light I see?...

IN MANUS TUAS, DOMINE!

ARS VICTRIX.

(IMITATED FROM THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.)

YES

ES; when the ways oppose

When the hard means rebel,
Fairer the work out-grows, –

More potent far the spell.

O Poet, then, forbear

The loosely-sandalled verse,
Choose rather thou to wear

The buskin-strait and terse;

Leave to the tiro's hand

The limp and shapeless style ;
See that thy form demand

The labour of the file.

Sculptor, do thou discard

The yielding clay,-consign
To Paros marble hard

The beauty of thy line ;

Model thy Satyr's face

For bronze of Syracuse ;

In the veined agate trace

The profile of thy Muse.

Painter, that still must mix

But transient tints anew, Thou in the furnace fix

The firm enamel's hue;

Let the smooth tile receive

Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; Thy Sirens blue at eve

Coiled in a wash of wine.

All passes. ART alone

Enduring stays to us ; The Bust out-lasts the throne, -

The Coin, Tiberius;

Even the gods must go ;

Only the lofty Rhyme Not countless years o'erthrow,

Not long array of time.

Paint, chisel, then, or write ;

But, that the work surpass, With the hard fashion fight,

With the resisting mass.

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