(To Beatrice Cenci, as she is depicted in Guido Reni's painting of St. Michael and the Dragon.)
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Gold hair, blown back from radiant brow, Crowning, like light, a maiden, martyred head, Feet planted on the "Dragon," prone, And mighty wings in victory outspread. In thee what change, divinely wrought! What wondrous resurrection from the dead! He lies, beneath thy righteous feet, Who, cruel craven, caused thee to be slain; He writhes who let thee agonize, A captive and in undeservéd pain, And crawls, in sight of all the world, Forever rendered loathsome by that stain! And thou, bright dream of brooding light, With woman's face and angel's stature, thou Exquisite seraph, fresh from God, Tell me, why wakes no awful vengeance now On thy grave lips? Oh! Woman, wronged, Unfold the mystery of that calm brow! |
THE CALL OF THE IRISH SEA.
THE LION OF LUCERNE.
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Hid in a hushed retreat, a lovely dell, Where Mother Nature sings low lullabies, And weaves her silence like a sacred spell, Beneath the light of deep and tender skies, In his lone agony the Lion lies. Colossal creature of a sculptor's brain, Are you the marble that you seem to be? Inanimate, untouched by mortal pain? Within that form, and yearning to be free, Your soul must wrestle with Death's mystery! There is a height Self-sacrifice may climb, Nearer the throne of God than any star, A height above the wasting tide of Time, Beyond the din of Earth's discordant jar— A height that untried souls scarce see afar. On that great height the Lion of Lucerne, With face half-human, with majestic brow, Lies stretched. Oh, Love! that will forever burn On Pain's dread altar, you alone can know The glory and the recompense for Woe! |