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But lo! with the light he repented his scorning,
For an earthquake had shattered the whole ere the
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;
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.'
OLL! Is it night, or daylight yet?
Somewhere the birds seem singing still,
Though surely now the sun has set.
Toll! But who tolls the Bell once more?
Who can it be?—the Bernardine,
This must be He who, legend saith,
Good-bye, old Bell! So let it be.
IN MANUS TUAS, DOMINE!
(IMITATED FROM THÉOPHILE Gautier.)
VES; when the ways oppose
Shen the hard means rebel,
Fairer the work out-grows,—
More potent far the spell.
O Poet, then, forbear
The loosely-sandalled verse,
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
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.