TO THE GENIUS OF DEATH, BY CANOVA.
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Genius of Death! Thou form as white and slim As moonbeams, falling through the awful dome Above thee when the deathlike night draws down; Speak, through those sweet, still lips, whose solemn curve Alone gives token of thine ancient, dread Supremacy! Say that thou art not Death, But holy Calm or silent hushed Repose. Still are thy stern lips dumb, no hopeful breath Exhaling! Then, from them, do I appeal To something more divine. O'er that calm brow And carven face, uplifted from the tomb In speechless faith, there shines a wondrous light That mocks the awful declaration there. Genius of Death thou canst not be, for lo! Thou art the Soul of Immortality! |
TO THE WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE.
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"Winged Victory?" Unworthy is that name, Thou marble miracle of endless Time! I see thee standing yonder in the light, Upon thy rude and lonely pedestal, A shape as strange as it is beautiful. To me, thou art a wingéd mystery, For where, in all the ages of the past, Years of the present, centuries to come, Can there be found creation like to thee, Conceived by God or Man? A miracle; Marble in motion—yet divinely still, As though it paused to hear its own low breath— Yet breathes not; pacing on its lonely height— Yet stirs not; heavenly wings outspread, with chaste Angelic curve—yet not in flight extended. Thou art not of the living nor the dead. Thy wings do breathe of immortality, Of Heavenly Presence, yet thy headless form, In all its marred and mutilated grace, Points to the clay. How can we solve thee, then? Enigma so profound was never known Among the many countless works of Man. Thou art incarnate Mystery itself, Brooding above the world; the Universe Lies in the shadow of thine outspread wings— Thou silent Spirit of the Infinite! |
BEATRICE TRIUMPHANT.