Puslapio vaizdai


And the doom seemed to hang on the palace no longer,

Like a fountain it sprang when the sources feed stronger;

Shaft, turret, and spire leaped upward, diminished, Like the flames of a fire,-till the palace was finished!

Without price, without flaw. And it lay on the


Like a diadem dropped from an emperor's treasure; And the dome of pearl white and the pinnacles fleckless,

Flashed back to the light, like the gems in a necklace.

So the Caliph looked forth on the turret-tops gilded;

And he said in his pride, "Is my palace not builded?

Who is more great than I that his word can avail if My will is my will," said Abdallah the Caliph.

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."

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TOLL! Is it night, or daylight yet?

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


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 wont 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? . . .





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 tyro'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 outlasts 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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