 | Poems |  |
[VII. As in osme stately Grove of singing pines]
As in some stately Grove of singing pines,One tree more marked than all, decisive rears
Its grand aspiring figure to the sky,
Remote from those beneath, and o'er whose top
The first, faint light of dawn familiar plays,
So in Count Julian's face there was the soul
Of something deeper, than the general heart,
Some memory more near to other worlds,
Time's recollection, and the storied Past.
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Soft as the willow o'er the River swaying,
Yet sinewy and capable of action;
Such grace as in Apollo's figure lay,
When he was moving the still world with light,
So perfect balanced, and convinced with art.
About his forehead clustered rich black curls,
Medusa-like, they charmed the student's eye.
Those soft, still hazel orbs Count Julian had,
Looked dream-like forth on the familiar day,
Yet eloquent, and full of luminous force,
Sweetly humane that had no harshness known,
Unbroken eyes where Love forever dwelt.
This art of Nature which surrounded him,
This made Count Julian what he was to me,
Which neither time, nor place, nor Poet's pen,
Nor Sculptor's chisel can e'er mould again.
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