Page:Landon in The New Monthly 1836.pdf/14

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Spirits, starry Spirits, they, That attend the radiant day, When the freed soul burst the clay Of its prison wall: Distant visions they appear; For we only dream of, here, Things etherial.

But one glideth gently nigh, Human love within her eye,— Love that is too true to die,— That is heaven's own. Let the angel's first look dwell Where the mortal loved so well, Ere yet life was flown.

To that angel-look was given All that ever yet from heaven Purified the earthly leaven Of a beating heart. She hath breathed of hope and love, As they warm the world above;— She must now depart.

Aye, I say that love hath power On the spirit's dying hour, Sharing its immortal dower, Mastering its doom: For that fair and mystic dream By the Sorgia's hallowed stream, Kindled from the tomb.

 

Waken'd by the small white fingers, Which its chords obey, On the air the music lingers Of a low and languid lay From a soft Ionian lyre;— Purple curtains hang the walls, And the dying daylight falls O'er the marble pedestals Of the pillars that aspire, In honour of Aspasia, The bright Athenian bride.

There are statues white and solemn, Olden gods are they; And the wreath'd Corinthian column Guardeth their array. Lovely that acanthus wreath, Drooping round the graceful girth: All the fairest things of earth, Art's creations have their birth— Still from love and death. They are gather'd for Aspasia, The bright Athenian bride. 