hrough the furnace heat
That scorcheth up its perishable frame,
And yields the essence purified for Act.
The soul that wanders like the mission'd dove
Along the chaos waste of boundless thought,
Must have some ark to nestle in on Earth,
And shelter from the endless Undefined.
So to Eve's daughters would Pygmalion seek,
Won by sweet hopes and promises of good
And beauty, such as emblem'd to him still
The end accomplish'd of aspiring thirst--
Essence and grace materialized. In them
He saw the sum of Nature's perfectness,
The acme of idealism reach'd:
Fair forms, smooth with the ruddy glow of health,
And ripening time, whose every motion seemed
The wak'ning of ethereal gracefulness
To life, and on whose lineaments the light
Of a seraphic imagery play'd;
Forms lithe and rounded by the art of youth
To be the shrines of spirit excellence,
And hold the fusion of immortal grace
Unblemish'd by corporeal defect.
What found he then? Flower-wreathed chalices
Tinted with rosy dyes, bright elegance
Of shape and garniture, but brimming up
Draughts bitter to the taste and nauseous.
He gazed upon their beauty, which his soul
In thought had dower'd with purity and truth,
As from the inward reflex of itself;
But, gazing, all his visions pass'd away,
And cold reality rose death-like up
To mow the aureate blossoms from his soul.

In Amathus the chill grey morning dawn'd
That woke him to truth's ruggedness, and left
Life struggling, joyless, sunless, to its goal.
Woman stood forth before him beautiful,
But mocking heaven with a shameless brow,
Wearing foul lewdness like a victor's crown,
And dashing virtue's elixir away.
From the deep fountains of her eyes there flow'd
No lucid streams of holiness and love,
But lust and utter wantonness, that fill'd
The heart with loathing, fraught with death to Hope.
Her crimson lips shed forth no silvery strains
Of gentleness and peace to hymn life's bark
Across the heaving waters of this Time,
But folly and discordant revelry
Sounded around her evermore, and woo'd
To sin and shame with notes once toned for heaven.
No Priestess she of lovely innocence,
Stoled for the work with beauty nigh divine,
But, warping all her natal destiny,
Prostrate she lay before the shrine of vice,
Yielding herself a living sacrifice
To the deep blasting of the idol's breath.

The heart clings fond