THE THREE MARYS AT CASTLE HOWARD,
IN 1812 AND 1837.
THE lifeless son-the mother's agony,
O'erstrain'd till agony refused to feel-
That sinner too I then dry-eyed could see;
For I was harden'd in my selfish weel,
And strength and joy had strung my soul with steel.
I knew not then that man may live to be
A thing of life, that feels he lives in vain-
A taper, to be quench'd in misery!
Forgive me, then, Caracci! if I seek
To look on this, thy tale of tears, again;
For now the swift is slow, the strong is weak.
Mother of Christ! how merciful is pain!
But, if I longer view thy tear-stain'd cheek,
Heart-broken Magdalene! my heart will break.
SARAH and William Adams! here we stood,
Roof'd by the cloud, which cast his frown between Wardsend and Loxley's moorlands.
Of one-starr'd Grenno, like a sea unseen,
The wind swept o'er us, seeming, in his might,
To shake the steadfast rocks; while, rushing keen
Beyond the edge of darkness, stormy light,
As from a league-wide trumpet, on the scene
A cataract of glory pour'd; and, bright
In gloom, the hill-tops islanded the night
Of billowy shade around us. Vale and hill,
Forest and cloud, were restless as a fight;
They seem'd as they would never more be still;
While, anchor'd over all, the high-poised kite
Saw the foam'd rivers dash their blue with white.
WORDS AND THINGS.
OUR wordy friend in metaphor transcends
All mortal scribes-his figures always strike!
And when he makes of far-sought odds and ends
Pictures of nothing, wonderfully like,
He calls them "THOUGHTS that startle!" Evening
Green with her red and purple with her gold;
And, while yon all-hued sun-born rainbow bends
O'er blush-tinged peak, cragged glen, and shadowed
Harmonized melodies in light are roll'd
Wherever lake reflects her dying beam,
Or mourns in Eden sad-voiced breeze, or stream,
Or showery cloud! but ne'er will man behold
The truth of beauty in a pedant's dream,
Cold as his sympathies, and false as cold.
MAUSOLEUM AT WENTWORTH.
HITHER I came-when life itself was new,
And new this form of greatness dead and gone—
To tremble in the gloom which draws and drew
A purple veil o'er deathlike life in stone.
This man a pitying look on frailty threw :
Have I not heard a matron, good and true,
Speak of him, with a tear upon her cheek?
Knaves call'd him weak-but when was virtue weak? O ye who wring the heart until it break,
And scourge pale nations with the wealth ye steal!
Here, if late pardon for your crimes ye seek,
To your cold souls the thoughts ye dread reveal;
Think of our vulture with the gory beak!
And of meek Rockingham, with humbled malice, speak.
Now, for the enchanted palace of our youth!"
But what have I with palaces to do,
Taught as I am, by Nature, time, and truth,
That pride can envy pomp, and hate it too?
Yes; but the ideal of the fair and true
Lives here in marble, by creative mind
Made sacred to the glory of mankind;
And if ideal beauty cannot woo
Thy steps to enter Taste's proud temple-Go!
Yet, wherefore? Wentworth's princely halls can show,
By Vandyke limn'd, the form of one who knew
How best to strike a tyrant's basest blow.
Behold him! nor to curse his crimes be slow-
Behold fell Strafford! man's and freedom's foe!
PORTRAIT AT WENTWORTH.
WAS he then human? Tools of Tyrants! could
This face be Strafford's? Strafford's! who his hands
Wrung in Hibernia's hair, and, drunk with blood,
Call'd murder wisdom! Brutal as his bands,
He startled hell with crime. His savage mood
Nor pity sooth'd nor reason's might could bow.
But Hampden dared withstand him, Pym withstood;
And men were found who laid his master low,
And sent the servant-whither tyrants go.
And, lo, at length, strange pangs his heart have riven !
There is a touch of feeling on his brow,
"For pledges left him by a saint in heav'n."
No more than this, could royal Charles allow?
"Put not your trust in princes!" Why didst thou?
BUST AND PORTRAIT AT WENTWORTH.
THIS bust, which beautifully doth relate
What heav'n's beloved are born to do and be;
These lines, these hues, which long shall renovate
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