Two Sketches For Pictures Poem by Bessie Rayner Parkes

THE sultry sun
Burn'd hotter in December than the skies
Of our far land in June; within a bower,
Where all the lucent leaves were fill'd with light,
And shed it greenly round, a lady mus'd,
While the lac'd shadows quiver'd on her face,
As skimming clouds on earth, or thoughts in hearts
Which drink their influence in. Down to the ground
Swept her long hair, stiller than scrolls of stone
So broadly curv'd her thoughtful brow, I said,
'This is the model we have waited for,
By poets sought unseen; still slow to take
Her sceptre in her hand; Fate's prisoner.
This is the Spirit of Freedom, calm and fair,
Which many lands desire. She bides her time.
Within her awful eyes such sorrow dwells
As shakes my heart with fear; and yet I know
When she arises not a throb or pang
Will usher in her steps. She bides her time.
When the far thunder sinks below the sea
She will walk forth to govern; noiseless flowers
Will spring around her feet. Till then she hears,
With the stern patience only gods can feel,
The groans which minute Time,--'Eternity,'
(I read her thoughts,) 'Eternity is mine.''

NIGHT loosen'd all the blackness of her hair,
Which fell about her in an ample cloud
Dropp'd with no jewels, veiling her blue eyes
In ebon fringes, and a sighing sound
Stole from her closed lips, as in unrest
She sway'd with slowest motion to and fro;
Then sat serene, and seem'd to search within
The abysses of her soul and memory vast,
And thoughts unknown to men; and wept her hours
(Her lovely starlit hours, choice gifts) defil'd
By evil, cruel thoughts, and bloodier deeds.

'Time was, when from my cooling urn
I scatter'd dews, and with my delicate hands
Clos'd up the flowers, that sages lit their lamps,
And ponder'd heavenly secrets, keeping fast.
Dark vapours hover now about my brow,
And bad things seek their shelter. I am weak,
And tremble, powerless to inspire a prayer.
Where art thou gone, my brother?' Thro' the dim earth
Sounded the cry of Night, and heavily
Fell the large tears from her mist-blinded eyes.
Now rang the silver bells of Dawn; sweet smells
Breath'd from the wakening flowers; a streak of light
Was mirror'd in the sea; and Night arose,
Gathering her robe, retreating towards the west,
Till in its farthest depths her lofty form
Was lost, and all her path refulgent shone
With jewels, and the Day, advancing, shook
Perfume and music from his golden curls.