Did ever shape that Paolo drew
Put on such brilliant tire,

As Nature, in this evening view,-
This world of tinted fire?
The glory into whose embrace,
The virgin pants to rise,

Is but reflected from the face

Of these Venetian skies.

The sun, beneath the horizon's brow

Has sunk, not passed away;

His presence is far lordlier now
Than on the throne of day;

His spirit of splendour has gone forth,

Sloping wide violet rays,

Possessing air and sea and earth

With his essential blaze.*

Transpierced, transfused, each densest mass

Melts to as pure a glow,

As images on painted glass
Or silken screens can show.
Gaze on the city,-contemplate
With that fine sense of thine

The Palace of the ancient state,-
That wildly-grand design!

* The perfect transparency and rich colour of all objects, and their reflections, in southern countries, for some short time after sunset, has an almost miraculous effect to a northern eye. Whenever it has been imitated in art, it has been generally pronounced unnatural or exaggerated. I do not remember to have ever seen the phenomenon so astonishingly beautiful as at Venice, at least in Italy.

How 'mid the universal sheen
Of marble amber-tinged,

Like some enormous baldaquin
Gay-chequered and deep-fringed,
It stands in air and will not move,
Upheld by magic power,—

The dun-lead Domes just caught above-
Beside, the glooming Tower.

Now a more distant beauty fills

Thy scope of ear and eye,—

That graceful cluster of low hills,

Bounding the western sky,

Which the ripe evening flushes cover

With purplest fruitage bloom,—

Methinks that gold-lipt cloud may hover

Just over Petrarch's tomb !

Petrarch! when we that name repeat,

Its music seems to fall

Like distant bells, soft-voiced and sweet,

But sorrowful withal ;

That broken heart of love !-that life

Of tenderness and tears!

So weak on earth,-in earthly strife,

So strong in holier spheres!

How in his most of godlike pride,

While emu'lous nations ran

To kiss his feet, he stept aside

And wept the woes of man!

How in his genius-woven bower

Of passion ever green,

The world's black veil fell, hour by hour,
Him and his rest between.

Welcome such thoughts;-they well atone

With this more serious mood

Of visible things that night brings on,
In her cool shade to brood;

The moon is clear in heaven and sea,
Her silver has been long
Slow-changing to bright gold, but she
Deserves a separate song.

ODE

TO THE MOON OF THE SOUTH.

LET him go down,

the gallant Sun!

His work is nobly done;

Well may He now absorb

Within his solid orb

The rays so beautiful and strong,

The rays that have been out so long

Embracing this delighted land as with a mystic song.

Let the brave Sun go down to his repose,

And though his heart be kind,

He need not mourn for those

He leaves behind;

He knows, that when his ardent throne

Is rolled beyond the vaulting sky,

The Earth shall not be left alone

In darkness and perplexity.

P

We shall not sit in sullen sorrow
Expectant of a tardy morrow,
But there where he himself arose,
Another power shall rise,

And gracious rivalry disclose

To our reverted eyes,

Between the passing splendour and the born,
Which can the most our happy world adorn.

The light of night shall rise,-
Not as in northern skies,

A memo'ry of the day, a dream

Of sunshine, something that might seem
Between a shadow and a gleam,

A mystery, a maiden

Whose spirit worn and sorrow laden
Pleasant imaginations wile

Into a visionary smile,

A novice veiled in vapoury shrouds,
A timid huntress, whom the clouds
Rather pursue than shun,—

With far another mien,

Wilt Thou come forth serene,
Thou full and perfect Queen,

Moon of the South! twin-sister of the Sun !

Still harboured in his tent of cloth of gold
He seems thy ordered presence to await,
In his pure soul rejoicing to behold
The majesty of his successor's state,—
Saluting thy ascent

With many a tender and triumphant tone

Compassed in his celestial instrument,

And harmonies of hue to other climes unknown.

He too, who knows what melody of word
May with that visual music best accord,
Why does the Bard his homage now delay?
As in the ancient East,

The royal Minstrel-Priest

Sang to his harp that Hallelujah lay
Of the Sun-bridegroom ready for his way,
So, in the regions of the later West
This blessed even-tide,

Is there no Poet whose divine behest
Shall be to hail the bride?

A feeble voice may give an earnest sound,
And grateful hearts are measured not by power,
Therefore may I, tho' nameless and uncrowned,
Proffer a friendly tribute to thy dower.
For on the midland Sea I sailed of old,
Leading thy line of narrow rippled light,
And saw it grow a field of frosted gold,
With every boat a Shadow in the Bright;
And many a playful fancy has been mine,
As I have watched the shapes thy glory made,
Glimpsing like starlight through the massive pine,
Or finely-trellised by mimosa shade;

And now I trace each moment of thy spell,

That frees from mortal stain these Venice isles, From eve's rich shield to morn's translucid shell, From Love's young glow to Love's expiring smiles!

We gaze upon the faces we hold dear,
Each feature in thy rays as well defined,
As just a symbol of informing mind,

As when the noon is on them full and clear;

P 2