Barbara's Heritage: Or, Young Americans Among the Old Italian Masters

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W. A. Wilde Company, 1899 - 358 pages
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Page 171 - And even since, and now, fair Italy ! Thou art the garden of the world, the home Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; Even in thy desert, what is like to thee ? Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste More rich than other climes' fertility : Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced With an immaculate charm which cannot be defaced.
Page 128 - HE came to Florence long ago, And painted here these walls, that shone For Raphael and for Angelo, With secrets deeper than his own, Then shrank into the dark again, And died, we know not how or when. • The shadows deepened, and I turned Half sadly from the fresco grand ;
Page 157 - Eh! the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now, looks the life He makes us lead! So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel He laid the fetter: let it lie!
Page 70 - For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted — better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out.
Page 299 - Invisible: and from the land we went, As to a floating city — steering in, And gliding up her streets, as in a dream, So smoothly, silently — by many a dome, Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, The statues ranged along an azure sky; By many a pile, in more than Eastern pride, Of old the residence of merchant kings; The fronts of some, tho' time had shatter'd them, Still glowing with the richest hues of art, As tho' the wealth within them had run o'er.
Page 139 - O, thou child of many prayers ! Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares ! Care and age come unawares ! Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.
Page 299 - Clings to the marble of her palaces. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, Invisible; and from the land we went, As to a floating City — steering in, And gliding up her streets as in a dream...
Page 61 - That was the first sound in the song of love ! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate.
Page 103 - O'er Doccia's dell, and fig and olive blend. There the twin streams in Affrico unite, One dimly seen, the other out of sight, But ever playing in his smoothen'd bed Of polisht stone, and willing to be led Where clustering vines protect him from the sun Never too grave to smile, too tired to run. Here, by the lake, Boccaccio's fair brigade Beguiled...
Page 45 - Pluto she the daughter was, And sad Proserpina, the Queene of hell ; Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas That parentage, with pride so did she swell ; And thundring...

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