 | Poems |  |
IN PARIS—AT THE LOUVRE—BEFORE MURILLO'S “IMMACULATE CONCEPTION.”
Half could I worship thee as pictured here,O thou Maid-mother of the Child divine,
Around whose pathway heaven's own lightnings shine,
Filling thee with a love that conquereth fear,
Making thee to the heart of man, how dear!
Yea, sacred, even unto eyes like mine
That are not Rome's, sacred, nay all divine,
Until to bow to thee my soul is near.
O mighty master, light of thy great Spain,
Many thy canvases that wake our awe;
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Fill'd with the glory here thy bless'd eyes saw,
Rapt up on high to where the splendours reign,
Archangels worship, and but love is law.
| Poems | |