Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe;
Which, through the wavering days of sin
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
Not wholly such his haggard look
When wandering once, forlorn, he stray'd,
With no companion save his book,
To Corvo's hush'd monastic shade;
Where, as the Benedictine laid
His palm upon the pilgrim guest,
The single boon for which he pray'd
The convent's charity was rest.
Peace dwells not here,―this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine,-
When hell he peopled with his foes,
The scourge of many a guilty line.
War to the last he waged with all
The tyrant canker-worms of earth;
Baron and duke, in hold and hall,
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth;
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth;
Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime;
But valiant souls of knightly worth
Transmitted to the rolls of Time.
O, Time! whose verdicts mock our own,
The only righteous judge art thou;
That poor, old exile, sad and lone,
Is Latium's other Virgil now.
Before his name the nations bow;
His words are parcel of mankind,
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow,
The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.
When to saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good:
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.
On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I pray'd Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise ;-
Was't not he that did devise
Auto-da-Fés and rosaries ?—
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.
Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where
All the ancient kings repose;
But, how I was swindled there
At the "Golden Fleece,"
In my wanderings, vague and various,
Reaching Naples, as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him;
Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things unclean :-
What need had I of quarantine?
In Sicily at least a score,—
In Spain about as many more,—
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,--
Did I pray to-sans reply;
Devil take the tribe !-said I.
Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came :
Sad and full of home-sick fancies,
I address'd me to Saint Francis ;
But the beggar never did
Any thing as he was bid,
Never gave me aught-but fleas,—
Plenty had I at Assise.
But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint
Gifted with a wondrous juice,
Potent for the worst complaint.
"Twas at Avignon that first-
In the witching time of thirst—
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre pass'd my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided
With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.
Rest he gave me, and refection,—
Chasten'd hopes, calm retrospection,-
Soften❜d images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow,
Charity for what is past,-
Faith in something good at last.
Now, why should any almanack
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a Saint so sage and merry?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.
But, since no day hath been appointed,
On purpose, by the Lord's Anointed,
Let us not wait, we'll do him right;
Send round your bottles, Hal! and set your night.
WHAT shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say, or write, that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head
And let the spring-time write her epitaph?
As it will soon in snow-drop, violet,
Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear,— Each letter of that pretty alphabet
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.
She was a maiden for a man to love,
She was a woman for a husband's life,
One that had learn'd to value far above
The name of Love the sacred name of Wife.
Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,
Had all there is of life-except gray hairs:
Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep,
And that mysterious tie a Mother bears.
She hath fulfill'd her promise and hath past.
Set her down gently at the iron door!
Eyes! look on that loved image for the last:
Now cover it in earth-her earth no more!
CHIMNEY Swallows! homeward hie!
You shall have my Lady's eye
To look and love you, now and then,
When she lays down her book or pen,
Shut wholly from the world of men.
In her chamber if you build,
With her smile you shall be fill'd :
Nevermore will you desire
To wander from her happy fire,
But fluttering in your new-found nest
Say to each other" Here we rest!"
O, had I but your pinions, too!
Full well I know what I would do.
I know where I would dwell to-night,
Where lamp and fire and eyes are bright,
And where the music never fails.
Even if the instrument be still,
There is a music that prevails
Beyond the master's highest skill:
Such harmony as flows from love-
Not passionate-but full of peace;
Past understanding, and above
Music,-most felt when that doth cease.
WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.
Born at Lexington, Kentucky, 1819
THE GODS OF OLD.
Nor realmless sit the ancient gods
Upon their misty thrones.
In that old glorious Grecian heaven
A languor on their awful forms may lie,
And a deep grief upon their large white brows,
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