 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
317
BLAKE'S VISITANTS.
[_]
[“Blake, the painter, forgot the present in the past. He conceived that he had formed friendships with distinguished individuals of antiquity. He asserted that they appeared to him, and were luminous and majestic shadows. The most propitious time for their visits was from nine at night till five in the morning.”]
The stars shed a dreamy light—
The wind, like an infant, sighs;
My lattice gleams, for the queen of night
Looks through with her soft, bright eyes.
I carry the mystic key
That unlocks the mighty Past,
And, ere long, the dead to visit me
Will wake in his chambers vast.
The wind, like an infant, sighs;
My lattice gleams, for the queen of night
Looks through with her soft, bright eyes.
I carry the mystic key
That unlocks the mighty Past,
And, ere long, the dead to visit me
Will wake in his chambers vast.
The gloom of the grave forsake,
Ye princes who ruled of yore!
For the painter fain to life would wake
Your majestic forms once more.
Ye brave, with your tossing plumes,
Ye bards of the pale, high brow!
Leave the starless night of forgotten tombs,
For my hand feels skilful now.
Ye princes who ruled of yore!
For the painter fain to life would wake
Your majestic forms once more.
Ye brave, with your tossing plumes,
Ye bards of the pale, high brow!
Leave the starless night of forgotten tombs,
For my hand feels skilful now.
They come, a shadowy throng,
With the types of their old renown—
The Mantuan bard, with his wreath of song,
The monarch with robe and crown.
They come!—on the fatal Ides
Of March yon conqueror fell;
For the rich, green leaf of the laurel hides
His baldness of forehead well.
With the types of their old renown—
The Mantuan bard, with his wreath of song,
The monarch with robe and crown.
They come!—on the fatal Ides
Of March yon conqueror fell;
For the rich, green leaf of the laurel hides
His baldness of forehead well.
318
I know, though his tongue is still,
By his pale, pale lips apart,
The Roman whose spell of voice could thrill
The depths of the coldest heart—
And behind that group of queens
Bedight in superb attire,
How mournfully Lesbian Sappho leans
Her head on a broken lyre!
By his pale, pale lips apart,
The Roman whose spell of voice could thrill
The depths of the coldest heart—
And behind that group of queens
Bedight in superb attire,
How mournfully Lesbian Sappho leans
Her head on a broken lyre!
That terrible shade I know
By the scowl his visage wears,
And the Scottish knight, his noble foe,
By the broad claymore he bears.
That warrior king who dyed,
In Saracen gore, the sands,
With his knightly harness on, beside
The fiery Soldan stands.
By the scowl his visage wears,
And the Scottish knight, his noble foe,
By the broad claymore he bears.
That warrior king who dyed,
In Saracen gore, the sands,
With his knightly harness on, beside
The fiery Soldan stands.
Ye laurell'd of old, all hail!
I love, in the gloom of night,
To rob the Past of his cloudy veil,
And gaze on your features bright.
Hah! the first bright beam of dawn
On my window redly plays,
And back, to their homes of dust, have gone
The mighty of other days.
I love, in the gloom of night,
To rob the Past of his cloudy veil,
And gaze on your features bright.
Hah! the first bright beam of dawn
On my window redly plays,
And back, to their homes of dust, have gone
The mighty of other days.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |