A BUST SEEN IN THE STUDIO OF AN ARTIST AT ROME .

A summer night in Rome, —
Dear Rome, of Art and Song and Love the home!
An eve of rare delight, —
A murmuring, soft, immeasurable night,
A summer night in Rome!

No frigid Northern skies
Chill us from far, mocking our longing eyes
And yearning sympathies; —
Ah, no! the heaven bends kind and clasping here,
A nd in the ether clear
The stars seem warm and near.

This is the Artist's room,
Hushed in its purple gloom, —
The dim birth-chamber of his vital thought,
Which, into marble wrought,
Asserts sublime and beautiful control, —
Charming the raptured sight,
Hushing the world in wondering delight,
Touching the fainting-soul,
Fettered and cramped by sin and grief and strife,
To newer, holier life.

Pulsing along the air,
A strange and sacred presence seems to fill
The studio dark and still;
Dark, — saving only where
Through the broad window, with a wondrous glow
Of golden light, unhindered in its flow,
Looks in the mellow moon,
The bright Italian moon; —
Still, save the tremor light
Which the thick vines yield to the wooing night,
And the soul-soothing tune
Breathing among the distant olive-trees,
Where bland airs sing their dreamful symphonies,
Their chants of love and June.

Behold! a vision there,
Where the slant moonlight floods the fragrant air, —
A dreaming marble face
Exquisite in its grace,
Gentle and young and fair,
Amid its luminous waves of flowing hair;
A brow with earnest meaning softly fraught,
Bowed in a trance of thought,
As though, enraptured by some vision rare,
Some picture in the air,
The musing eyes see what is else unseen;
And while it lingers there,
The beautiful lips serene
Seem parting unaware
To utter softly, " Stay! thou art so fair! "

This is the Artist's Dream,
This sweet and noble face. Does it not seem
A word might break the charm, —
Might startle the dropped lids with quick alarm,
Might wake warm color in the snowy cheek
And make the Dreamer speak?

Nay, breathe more softly, — hush!
Did not the rare lips move?
Pygmalion trembled when the rosy flush
Of conscious being thrilled his marble love;
I dare not stay to prove
If I am stronger. So, farewell to thee,
Most dainty Dream! The Artist will not see
That thou hast lost by giving unto me
A beautiful memory,
A joy forevermore!

Now close the studio door,
And leave the haunted room
To all pure spirits dear;
Leave not a footprint on the sacred floor,
Wake not the echoes in the classic gloom;
The Artist's soul is here,
Where in the eloquent silence, strange and dim,
His beautiful creations wait for him!