FOR

AN ALLEGORICAL DANCE OF WOMEN.

BY ANDREA MANTEGNA.

(In the Louvre.)

SCARCELY, I think; yet it indeed may be

The meaning reached him, when this music rang Clear through his frame, a sweet possessive pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridged sea. But I believe that, leaning tow'rds them, he Just felt their hair carried across his face

As each girl passed him; nor gave ear to trace How many feet; nor bent assuredly

His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought

To know the dancers. It is bitter glad

Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it,

A secret of the wells of Life: to wit:

The heart's each pulse shall keep the sense i had With all, though the mind's labor run to nought.

FOR

'RUGGIERO AND ANGELICA.'

BY INGRES.

(Two Sonnets.)

I.

A REMOTE Sky, prolonged to the sea's brim:
One rock-point standing buffeted alone,

Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown,
Hell-birth of geomaunt and teraphim:

A knight, and a winged creature bearing him,
Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there,
Leaning into the hollow with loose hair

And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb.

The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt :
Under his lord the griffin-horse ramps blind

With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind,

That evil length of body chafes at fault.

She doth not hear nor see - she knows of them.

Draw in thy senses, set thy knees, and take
One breath for all: thy life is keen awake,

Thou mayst not swoon. Was that the scattered whirl

Of its foam drenched thee?

or the waves that curl

And split, bleak spray wherein thy temples ache?

Or was it his the champion's blood to flake

Thy flesh?

or thine own blood's anointing, girl?

Now, silence: for the sea's is such a sound
As irks not silence; and except the sea,
All now is still. Now the dead thing doth cease
To writhe, and drifts. He turns to her: and she,
Cast from the jaws of Death, remains there, bound,

Again a woman in her nakedness.

FOR

"THE WINE OF CIRCE"

BY EDWARD BURNE JONES.

DUSK-HAIRED and gold-robed o'er the golden wine

She stoops, wherein, distilled of death and shame, Sink the black drops; while, lit with fragrant flame, Round her spread board the golden sunflowers shine Doth Helios here with Hecatè combine

(O Circe, thou their votaress!) to proclaim For these thy guests all rapture in Love's name, Till pitiless Night give Day the countersign?

Lords of their hour, they come. And by her knee
Those cowering beasts, their equals heretofore,
Wait; who with them in new equality

To-night shall echo back the sea's dull roar

With a vain wail from passion's tide-strown shore

Where the dishevelled seaweed hates the sea.

MARY'S GIRLHOOD.

(For a Picture.)

I.

THIS is that blessed Mary, pre-elect

God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee.

Unto God's will she brought devout respect,
Profound simplicity of intellect,

And supreme patience. From her mother's knee
Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity;

Strong in grave peace; in pity circumspect.

So held she through her girlhood; as it were
An angel-watered lily, that near God

Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home
She woke in her white bed, and had no fear
At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt awed:
Because the fulness of the time was come.

II.

THESE are the symbols. On that cloth of red
I' the centre is the Tripoint: perfect each,
Except the second of its points, to teach

That Christ is not yet born. The books whose head
Is golden Charity, as Paul hath said

Those virtues are wherein the soul is rich: Therefore on them the lily standeth, which Is Innocence, being interpreted.

The seven-thorn'd brier and the palm seven-leaved
Are her great sorrow and her great reward.
Until the end be full, the Holy One

Abides without. She soon shall have achieved
Her perfect purity: yea, God the Lord

Shall soon vouchsafe His Son to be her Son.