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THE MADONNA OF THE HARPIES By Andrea del Sarto (1487-1583)
One of the most famous painters of the Florentine school. He lived and worked in his native city of Florence except for a sojourn at Paris, where he was invited by Francis I. This picture is called the "Madonna of the Harpies" because of the strange figures of harpies in the border, not shown in this reproduction [End ill.u.s.tration]
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SUMMER RAIN
The mountain streams are silent, Or whisper faint and low; The earth is grateful to the dews For moisture which the clouds refuse; Blow, west wind, blow!
And fall, O gentle rain!
Awake the music of the bowers, Unfold the beauty of the flowers; The cornfields long to hear thy voice, And woods and orchards will rejoice To see thee, gentle rain!
It comes! The gus.h.i.+ng wealth descends!
Hark! how it patters on the leaves!
Hark! how it drops from cottage eaves!
The pastures and the clouds are friends.
Drop gently, gentle rain!
The fainting cornstalk lifts its head, The gra.s.s grows greener at thy tread, The woods are musical again; And from the hillside springing, Down comes the torrent singing, With grateful nature in accord, A full-voiced anthem to the Lord, To thank Him for the rain.
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THE GLORIOUS HEAVENS
The s.p.a.cious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a s.h.i.+ning frame, Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst the radiant orbs be found?
In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they s.h.i.+ne, "The hand that made us is divine."
--_Addison_.
_Adapted from the nineteenth Psalm_.
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JESUS AND JOHN By Murillo (1618-1682) [End ill.u.s.tration]
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TWILIGHT
The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea.
But in the fisherman's cottage There s.h.i.+nes a sudden light; And a little face at the window Peers out into the night.
Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness To see some form arise.
And a woman's waving shadow Is pa.s.sing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low.
What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy cas.e.m.e.nt, Tell to that little child?
And why do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?
--_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_.
By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
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THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN
"I am a Pebble and yield to none!"
Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; "Nor change nor season can alter me: I am abiding while ages flee.
The pelting hail and the drizzling rain Have tried to soften me long in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or to touch my heart,--but it was not felt.
"None can tell of the Pebble's birth; For I am as old as the solid earth.
The children of men arise and pa.s.s Out of the world like blades of gra.s.s; And many a foot on me has trod That's gone from sight and under the sod!
I am a Pebble! but who art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough?"
The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; And she felt for a while perplexed to know How to answer a thing so low.
But to give reproof of n.o.bler sort Than the angry look or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone, "Since it has happened that I am thrown
"From the lighter element, where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, {439} And beside a personage so august, Abashed I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, Nor the gentler dew, nor the grinding wheel, Has ever subdued or made to feel."
And soon in the earth she sunk away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay; But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an ancient oak; And as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,-- "A modest acorn never to tell What was enclosed in her simple sh.e.l.l--
"That the pride of the forest was thus shut up Within the s.p.a.ce of her little cup!
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth To prove that nothing could hide her worth.
And, O, how many will tread on me To come and admire that beautiful tree, Whose head is towering toward the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I!
"Useless and vain, a c.u.mberer here, I have been idling from year to year; But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humble Pebble again be heard, Till something without me, or within, Can show the purpose for which I've been!"
The Pebble could not its vow forget And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.
--_Gould_.
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A PSALM OF LIFE
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
