( 521 ) 

 A FRAGMENT 



Oh, such faces as we see when we are oung Bvno.v. 



THE bells are ringing- cheerily, 



Hark to the peal of the signal gun, 

 A king with the flower of his chivalry 

 And the pride arid pomp of his pageantry 



Comes forth to tell of freedom won. 

 And the kerchiefs are waving, the banners are flung 



To the breeze, and the shout of the swelling throng 

 Rolls awful and grand o'er the stillness among 

 The lone aisles of yon gothic cathedral strong. 

 I stood beside a pillar lone, 

 In that vast crowd unmarked, unknown, 

 To gaze on the flow of that gorgeous throng, 

 As it rolled its stately billows along 

 And England's noblest dames are there, 

 And few are they who with them may compare. 

 But who is she with the jewelled brow, 



And the noble air, and the Phydian face, 

 And the lustrous eyes that are bent on me now, 

 Like an angel's, in pity, from that high place ? 

 Oh, God, such loveliness, such power 

 Of youthful beauty, till this hour 

 Ne'er shook my soul so, though on high 

 I've winged me to the glorious sky, 

 Into the realms of thought afar, 

 And viewed the countless forms of light 

 That dwell in every shining star, 

 As their own holy essence bright, 

 Upborn by that high poet's wing, 

 The Florentine, to whom was given, 

 T' unveil the mysteries of heaven. 

 Yet it was not the jewel that flash'd through the braid 



Of her dark shining hair, nor the hue of the rose 

 That slept on her cheek, nor the graces that played 



Round her lips, or in dimples, were lull'd to repose 

 That wrought on my soul. Oh no, for my eye 

 Had wandered o'er faces as glorious in hue, 

 And heeded them not, save as sunbeams that fly 

 O'er our path for an instant, and vanish from view. 

 Words may not paint it, 'twas a power 

 That beamed from those dark lustrous eyes, 

 Beneath whose softness seemed to cower 

 One's thoughts, a feeling of the skies ; 

 Something of mystic and sublime, 

 A dream of worlds beyond all time, 

 Such as the painter's hand of grace 

 Hath placed within the Sybil's eye, 

 Or in your martyr's raptured face, 

 Of inspiration, constancy ; 

 Or like the starry midnight's gleam 



That sleeps on the breast of the tranquil stream. 



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M.M. No 101. 3 X 



