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Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare
Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!
Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image ?—strikeThat painting is no idol-'tis too like.
Some kinder casuists are pleased to say
In nameless print—that I have no devotion; But set those persons down with me to pray,
And you shall see who has the properest notion Of getting into heaven the shortest way :
My altars are the mountains and the ocean, Earth, air, stars—all that springs from the great Whole, Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.
Sweet hour of twilight !—in the solitude
Of the pine forest and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, To where the last Cæsarean fortress stood,
Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper bells that rose the boughs along :
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,
His hell-dogs and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learn'd from this example not to fly From a true lover--shadow'd my mind's eye.
O Hesperus! thou bringest all good things—
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
When Nero perish'd by the justest doom
Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,
But I'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,
Or any such like sovereign buffoons,
To do with the transactions of my hero,
More than such madmen's fellow-man-the moon's? Sure my invention must be down at zero,
And I grown one of many "wooden spoons" Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please To dub the last of honours in degrees).
I feel this tediousness will never do-
They'll never find it out, unless I own
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown: I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is, From Aristotle passim.—See Пointikns.
THE DEATH of haidée
FROM CANTO IV
Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour,
Beauty and love were Haidée's mother's dower; But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source.
Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray,
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair,
But, overwrought with passion and despair, The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.
The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan; On her sire's arm, which, until now, scarce held Her, writhing, fell she, like a cedar fell'd.
A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies
O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch, with gushing eyes;
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill—
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill
All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul— She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.
The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,
She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true,
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token, without knowing what;
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat:
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.