Her labour past, another breast,
Still lovely woman's, urged his pen--
Pure love was sent to make him blest,
And bid his fancies flow again:
She yielded to his minstrel pride
The heart, the hand to lips denied!
Quick roll'd the years in tranquil peace,
The peace by harmony begun.
And numbers charm'd each day of bliss,
That flowing verse and concord won:
His Mary's music soothed his woe,
And chased the tear that chanced to flow.
Death came--and Poetry was o'er,
The chords of song had ceas'd to thrill,
The Minstrel's name was heard no more,
But one true heart was heaving still--
His Mary's voice would nightly weave
Its lone, deep notes around his grave!
* * * * *
CLAUDE LORRAINE.
Lanzi, in his _History of Italian Painting_, gives the following
exquisite encomium on this prince of landscape painters:
"His landscapes present to the spectator an endless variety; so many
views of land and water, so many interesting objects, that, like an
astonished traveller, the eye is obliged to pause and measure the extent
of the prospect, and his distances of mountain and of sea, are so
illusive, that the spectator feels, as it were, fatigued by gazing.
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