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But lo! with the light he repented his scorning,
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 Caliph has gone to his fathers for ever,
IN THE BELFRY.
WRITTEN UNDER RETHEL'S “DEATH, THE FRIEND."
Somewhere the birds seem singing still,
TOLL! Is it night, or daylight yet?
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.)
when the ways oppose
When the hard means rebel,
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 ;
The labour of the file.
Sculptor, do thou discard
The yielding clay,-consign
The beauty of thy line ;
Model thy Satyr's face
For bronze of Syracuse ;
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.