Thus, face to face, the dying and the dead,
Bound in one solemn ever-living bond,
Communed; and I was sad that ancient head
Ever should pass those holy walls beyond.

THE ILLUMINATIONS OF ST. PETER'S.

I.

FIRST ILLUMINATION.

TEMPLE! where Time has wed Eternity,
How beautiful Thou art, beyond compare,
Now emptied of thy massive majesty,
And made so faery-frail, so faery-fair :
The lineaments that thou art wont to wear
Augustly traced in ponderous masonry,
Lie faint as in a woof of filmy air,

Within their frames of mellow jewelry.—

But yet how sweet the hardly-waking sense,

That when the strength of hours has quenched those gems,

Disparted all those soft-bright diadems,—

Still in the Sun thy form will rise supreme

In its own solid clear magnificence,

Divinest substance then, as now divinest dream.

II.

SECOND ILLUMINATION.

My heart was resting with a peaceful gaze,
So peaceful that it seemed I well could die
Entranced before such Beauty,-when a cry
Burst from me, and I sunk in dumb amaze :

The molten stars before a withering blaze

Paled to annihilation, and my eye,

Stunned by the splendour, saw against the sky

Nothing but light,-sheer light,—and light's own haze.
At last that giddying Sight took form,—and then
Appeared the stable Vision of a Crown,

From the black vault by unseen Power let down,
Cross-topped, thrice girt with flame :—

Queens of the Earth! bow low,

Cities of men,

-was ever brow

Of mortal birth adorned as Rome is now?

III.

REFLECTION.

PAST is the first dear phantom of our sight,

A loadstar of calm loveliness to draw

All souls from out this world of fault and flaw,
To a most perfect centre of delight,

Merged in deep fire ;—our joy is turned to awe,
Delight to wonder. This is just and right ;—
A greater light puts out the lesser light,—
So be it ever, such is God's high law.

The self-same Sun that calls the flowers from earth
Withers them soon, to give the fruit free birth ;—
The nobler Spirit to whom much is given
Must take still more, though in that more there lie
The risk of losing All;-to gaze at Heaven,
We blind our earthly eyes ;-to live we die.

THE FIREWORKS

FROM THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO.

PLAY on, play on, I share your gorgeous glee,
Creatures of elemental mirth! play on,-
Let each fulfil his marvellous destiny,
My heart leaps up and falls in unison.

The Tower round which ye weave, with elfin grace,
The modulations of your burning dance,

Looks through your gambols with a grandsire's face,
A grave but not reproachful countenance;

Ye are the children of a festive night,

He is the mate of many an hundred years,

Ye but attest men's innocent delight,

He is the comrade of their crimes and tears,-
Ye in your joys' pure prime will flare away,
He waits his end in still and slow decay.

ON THE

MARRIAGE OF THE LADY GWENDOLIN TALBOT

WITH THE

ELDEST SON OF THE PRINCE BORGHESE.

LADY! to decorate thy marriage-morn,

Rare gems, and flowers, and lofty songs are brought;

Thou the plain utterance of a Poet's thought,

Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn:

The name, into whose splendour thou wert born,
Thou art about to change for that which stands
Writ on the proudest work* that mortal hands
Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn.
Take it rejoicing,—take with thee thy dower,
Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new,
Being of mind; may the cool northern dew
Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower!
Mingling thy English nature, pure and true,
With the bright growth of each Italian hour.
ROME, May 11th, 1835.

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS BORGHESE,

AT ROME, NOVEMBER, 1840.

ONCE, and but once again I dare to raise

A voice which thou in spirit still may'st hear,
Now that thy bridal bed becomes a bier,

Now that thou canst not blush at thine own praise!
The ways of God are not as our best ways,

And thus we ask, with a convulsive tear,
Why is this northern blossom low and sere?
Why has it blest the south but these few days?
Another Basilic,+ decked otherwise

Than that which hailed thee as a princely bride,
Receives thee and three little ones beside;
While the young lord of that late glorious home
Stands 'mid these ruins and these agonies,
Like some lone column of his native Rome!

*St. Peter's.

† S. Maria Maggiore, where the Borghese family are interred.

NAPLES AND VENICE.

OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Naples and her subject bay, Stands Camaldoli, the convent, shaded from the' inclement ray.

Thou, who to that lofty terrace lov'st on summer-eve to go, Tell me, Poet! what Thou seest, what Thou hearest, there below!

Beauty, beauty, perfect beauty! Sea and City, Hills and Air, Rather blest imaginations than realities of fair.

Forms of grace alike contenting casual glance and stedfast gaze, Tender lights of pearl and opal mingling with the diamond blaze.

Sea is but as deepen'd æther: white as snow-wreaths sunbeshone Lean the Palaces and Temples green and purple heights upon.

Streets and paths mine eye is tracing, all replete with clamo'rous throng,

Where I see, and where I see not, waves of uproar roll along.

As the sense of bees unnumber'd, burning through the walk of

limes,

As the thought of armies gatheʼring round a chief in ancient times,―

So from Corso, Port, and Garden, rises Life's tumultuous strain, Not secure from wildest utterance rests the perfect-crystal main.