Poems | Page 6

of woe Grow lovely in life's afterglow.

CORSICA
In Bordighera's groves of palm I linger at the close of day, And watch, beyond the ocean's calm, A range of mountains far away.
Their snowy summits, white and cold, Flush crimson like a tinted shell, As sinks the sun in clouds of gold Behind the peaks of Esterel.
No unsubstantial shapes are they,-- The offspring of the mist and sea; No splendid vision of Cathay, Recalled in dreamful revery;
Their solid bastions,--towering high Though rooted in earth's primal plan,-- Proclaim to every passer by The cradle of the Corsican.
What martial soul there found rebirth, When on those cliffs, then scarcely known, There once more visited the earth The spirit called Napoleon?
Three islands, like the sister Fates, His life-thread wove upon their loom From fair Ajaccio's silvered gates To Saint Helena's mournful tomb;--
The first, his birthplace; whence appeared His baleful star with lurid glow; Next, Elba, where the world still feared The fugitive from Fontainebleau;
Last, England's lonely prison-block, Grim fragment 'neath a tropic sky, Where, like Prometheus on his rock, The captive Caesar came to die,
O Corsica, sublimely wild And riven by the winds and waves, Thy fame is deathless from thy child, Whose glory filled a million graves.

TO THE VENUS OF MELOS
O goddess of that Grecian isle Whose shores the blue Aegean laves, Whose cliffs repeat with answering smile Their features in its sun-kissed waves!
An exile from thy native place, We view thee in a northern clime; Yet mark on thy majestic face A glory still undimmed by Time.
Through those calm lips, proud goddess, speak! Portray to us thy gorgeous fane, Where Melian lovers thronged to seek Thine aid, Love's paradise to gain;
And where, as in the saffron east, Day's jewelled gates were open flung, With stately pomp the attendant priest Drew back the veil before thee hung;
And when the daring kiss of morn, Empurpling, made thy charms more fair, Sweet strains from unseen minstrels borne Awoke from dreams the perfumed air.
Vouchsafe at last our minds to free From doubts pertaining to thy charms,-- The meaning of thy bended knee, The secret of thy vanished arms.
Wast thou in truth conjoined with Mars? Did thy fair hands his shield embrace, The surface of whose golden bars Grew lovely from thy mirrored face?
Or was it some bright scroll of fame Thus poised on thine extended knee, Upon which thou didst trace the name Of that fierce god so dear to thee?
Whate'er thou hadst, no mere delight Was thine the glittering prize to hold; Not thine the form that met thy sight, Replying from the burnished gold;
Unmindful what thy hands retained, Thy gaze is fixed beyond, above; Some dearer object held enchained The goddess of immortal love.
We mark the motion of thine eyes, And smile; for, heldst thou shield or scroll, A tender love-glance we surprise, That tells the secret of thy soul.

MORS LEONIS
When o'er the ag��d lion steals The instinct of approaching death, Whose numbing grasp he vaguely feels In trembling limbs and labored breath, He shuns the garish light of day, And leaving mate and whelps at play, In mournful silence creeps away.
From bush to bush, by devious trails, He drags himself from hill to hill, And, as his old strength slowly fails, Drinks long at many a mountain rill, Until he gains, with stifled moan, A height, to hated man unknown, Where he may die, at least alone.
Relaxing now his mighty claws, He lies, half shrouded by his mane, His grand head resting on his paws, And heeding little save his pain, As o'er his eyes, so sad and deep, The film of death begins to creep,-- The prelude to eternal sleep.
As Caesar, reeling 'neath the stroke And dagger-thrust of many a friend, Drew o'er his face his Roman cloak, To meet, unseen, his tragic end, So hath this desert-monarch tried With noble dignity to hide From others how and where he died.
And now his spirit is serene; For here no stranger can intrude To view this last, pathetic scene, Or mar its sombre solitude; Prone on the lonely mountain crest, Confronting the resplendent west, The dying lion sinks to rest.
Proud king of beasts! thy death should teach Mankind the cheapness of display; More eloquent than human speech, Thy grand example shows the way To pass from life, unheard, unseen, And with composed, majestic mien Death's awful sacredness to screen.
Nay, more! thou didst select a place Where, unobserved, thy form could rest, Till Mother Earth with fond embrace Should hide it in her ample breast; Like Moses in lone Nebo's land, Thou hast been sepulchred in sand, Unseen by eye, untouched by hand.
No pompous tomb shall ever rise Above thy lonely, sun-bleached frame; No epitaph of well-turned lies Shall be inscribed beneath thy name; No bells for thee a dirge shall ring, No choir beside thy