Her hand scarce stirs the singing, wiry metal ·
Hear from the wild-rose fall each perfect petal!

And can we have, on earth, of heaven the whole, Or be to heaven upcaught,

Hearing the soul of inexpressible thought,

Roses of sound

That strew melodious leaves upon the silent ground;
And music that is music's very soul,

Without one touch of earth,

Too tender, even, for sorrow, and too bright for mirth!

MODJESKA

THERE are four sisters known to mortals well,
Whose names are Joy and Sorrow, Death and Love;
This last it was who did my footsteps move
To where the other deep-eyed sisters dwell.
To-night, or ere yon painted curtain fell,

These, one by one, before my eyes did rove
Through the brave mimic world that Shakespeare wove.
Lady! thy art, thy passion were the spell

That held me, and still holds; for thou dost show,
With those most high each in his sovereign art,—
Shakespeare supreme, and Tuscan Angelo, -
Great art and passion are one. Thine too the part
To prove, that still for him the laurels grow
Who reaches through the mind to pluck the heart.

THE DRAMA

(SUPPOSED TO BE FROM THE POLISH)

I SAT in the crowded theater. The first notes of the orchestra wandered in the air; then the full harmony burst forth; then ceased.

THE DRAMA

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The conductor, secretly pleased with the loud applause, waited a moment, then played again; but as he struck upon his desk for the third time, the bell sounded, the just-beginning tones of the wind-instruments and the violins husht suddenly, and the curtain was rolled to the ceiling.

Then appeared a wonderful vision, which shall not soon be forgotten by me.

For know that I am one who loves all things beautiful. Did you find the figure of a man lying solitary upon the wind-fashioned hills of sand, watching the large sun rise from the ocean? That was I.

It was I who, lonely, walked at evening through the woods of autumn, beholding the sun's level light strike through the unfallen red and golden foliage,

Whose heart trembled when he saw the fire that rapidly consumed the dead leaves lying upon the hillside, and spread a robe of black that throbbed with crimson jewels under the wind of the rushing flame.

Know, also, that the august forms wrought in marble by the ancient sculptors have power upon me, also the imaginative works of the incomparable painters; and that the voices of the early poets are modern and familiar to me.

What vision was it, then, that I beheld; what art was it that made my heart tremble and filled me with joy that was like pain?

Was it the art of the poet; was it of a truth poetry made visible in human attitudes and motions?

Was it the art of the painter - which Raphael knew so well when he created those most gracious shapes that yet live on the walls of the Vatican?

Or was it the severe and marvelous art of the sculptor, in which antique Phidias excelled, and which Michael Angelo indued with new and mighty power?

Or, haply, it was that enchanting myth, made real of the insensate marble warmed to life

before our eyes

beneath the passionate gaze of the sculptor!

No, no; it was not this miracle, of which the bards have so often sung; nor was it the art of the poet, nor of the painter, nor of the musician (tho' often I thought of music), nor of the sculptor. It was none of these that moved my heart, and the hearts of all who beheld, and yet it was all of these,

For it was the ancient and noble art of the drama, · that art which includes all other arts, and she who was the mistress of it was the divine Modjeska.

FOR AN ALBUM

(TO BE READ ONE HUNDRED YEARS AFTER)

A CENTURY'S summer breezes shook

The maple shadows on the grass

Since she who owned this ancient book
From the green world to heaven did pass.

Beside a northern lake she grew,

A wild-flower on its craggy walls;

Her eyes were mingled gray and blue,

Like waves where summer sunlight falls.

Cheerful from morn to evening-close,
No humblest work, no prayer forgot!
Yet who of woman born but knows
The sorrows of our mortal lot!

And she too suffered, tho' the wound
Was hidden from the general gaze,

And most from those who thus had found
An added burden for their days.

PORTO FINO

She had no special grace, nor art;
Her riches not in banks were kept;
Her treasure was a gentle heart;

Her skill to comfort those who wept.

Not without foes her days were past,
For quick her burning scorn was fanned.
Her friends were many least and last,

A poet from a distant land.

PORTO FINO

I KNOW a girl-she is a poet's daughter,
And many-mooded as a poet's day,
And changing as the Mediterranean water;
We walked together by an emerald bay,

So deep, so green, so promontory-hidden

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That the lost mariner might peer in vain
Through storms, to find where he erewhile had ridden,
Safe-sheltered from the wild and windy main.

Down the high stairs we clambered just to rest a
Cool moment in the church's antique shade.
How gay the aisles and altars! "T was the festa
Of brave Saint George who the old dragon laid.

How bright the little port! The red flags fluttered,
Loud clanged the bells, and loud the children's glee;
What tho' some distant, unseen storm-cloud muttered,
And waves breathed big along the weedy quay.

We climbed the hill whose rising cleaves asunder
Green bay and blue immeasurable sea;

We heard the breakers at its bases thunder;

We heard the priests' harsh chant soar wild and free.

Then through the graveyard's straight and narrow

portal

Our journey led. How dark the place! How strange Its steep, black mountain wall - as if the immortal Spirit could thus be stayed its skyward range!

Beyond, the smoky olives clothed the mountains

In green that grew through many a moonlit night. Below, down cleft and chasm leapt snowy fountains; Above, the sky was warm, and blue, and bright;

When, sudden, from out a fair and smiling heaven
Burst forth the rain, quick as a trumpet-blare;
Yet still the Italian sun each drop did leaven,
And turned the rain to diamonds in the air.

So past the day in shade, and shower, and sun,

Like thine own moods, thou sweet and changeful

maiden!

Great Heaven! deal kindly with this gentle one,

Nor let her soul too heavily be laden.

IMPROMPTUS

I-TO F. F. C. ON THE PANSY, HER CLASS FLOWER

THIS is the flower of thought;

Take it, thou empress of a land

Of true hearts, from a loyal subject's hand;

And with it naught,

O, naught beneath life's ever-brightening dome

Of sad remembrance! May it bring

Dreams of joy only, and of happy days

Backward and still to come;