LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,
And seek him everywhere;
Perchance in sunset’s golden pale
He listens to the nightingale,
Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you,
And I no more am I;
Delight is changeful as the hue
Of heaven, that is no longer blue
In yonder sunset sky.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find,
If we knock none openeth;
Nay, see, the sunset fades behind
The mountains, and the cold night wind
Blows from the house of Death.
A NATIVITY OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI.
‘Wrought in the troublous times of Italy
By Sandro Botticelli,’ when for fear
Of that last judgment, and last day drawn near
To end all labour and all revelry,
He worked and prayed in silence; this is she
That by the holy cradle sees the bier,
And in spice gifts the hyssop on the spear,
And out of Bethlehem, Gethsemane.
Between the gold sky and the green o’er head,
The twelve great shining angels, garlanded,
Marvel upon this face, wherein combine
The mother’s love that shone on all of us,
And maiden rapture that makes luminous
The brows of Margaret and Catherine.