And then the organ sounds, and unseen

choirs

Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love

And benedictions of the Holy Ghost; And the melodious bells among the spires O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above

Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

VI.

O star of morning and of liberty!

O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea,

The voices of the mountains and the pines,

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard

As of a mighty wind, and men devout,

Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.

SEVEN SONNETS AND A CANZONE.

N

[FROM MICHAEL angelo.]

I.

THE ARTIST.

OTHING the greatest artist can conceive

That every marble block doth not confine

Within itself; and only its design The hand that follows intellect can achieve.

The ill I flee, the good that I believe,

In thee, fair lady, lofty and divine,

Thus hidden lie; and so that death be

Art, of desired success, doth me be

reave.

Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face, Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain, Of my disgrace, nor chance nor destiny, If in thy heart both death and love find place

At the same time, and if my humble brain,

Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.

II.

FIRE.

NOT without fire can any workman mould The iron to his preconceived design, Nor can the artist without fire refine And purify from all its dross the gold; Nor can revive the phoenix, we are told, Except by fire. Hence if such death be

mine

I hope to rise again with the divine, Whom death augments, and time cannot make old.

O sweet, sweet death! . O fortunate fire that burns

Within me still to renovate my days, Though I am almost numbered with the dead!

If by its nature unto heaven returns
This element, me, kindled in its blaze,
Will it bear upward when my life is
fled.

III.

YOUTH AND AGE.

Он give me back the days when loose

and free

To my blind passion were the curb and

rein,

Oh give me back the angelic face again, With which all virtue buried seems to

be!

Oh give my panting footsteps back to me, That are in age so slow and fraught

with pain,

And fire and moisture in the heart and

If thou wouldst have me burn and weep for thee!

If it be true thou livest alone, Amor,

On the sweet-bitter tears of human hearts,

In an old man thou canst not wake

desire ;

Souls that have almost reached the other

shore

Of a diviner love should feel the darts, And be as tinder to a holier fire.

IV.

OLD AGE.

THE Course of my long life hath reached at last,

In fragile bark o'er a tempestuous sea, The common harbor, where must rendered be

Account of all the actions of the past. The impassioned phantasy, that, vague

and vast,

Made art an idol and a king to me,
Was an illusion, and but vanity