SUGGESTED BY A STATUE EXECUTED BY ME. ROGERS IN FLORENCE .

From age to age, from clime to clime,
A spirit, bright as her own morn,
She walks the golden fields of Time,
As erst amid the yellow corn.

A form o'er which the hallowed veil
Of years bequeaths a lovelier light,
As when the mists of morning sail
Round some far isle to make it bright.

And as some reaper 'mid the grain,
Or binder resting o'er his sheaf,
Beheld her on the orient plain,
A passing vision bright and brief; —

And while he gazed let fall perchance
The sheaf or sickle from his hand —
Thus even here, as in a trance
Before her kneeling form I stand.

But not as then she comes and goes
To live in memory alone;
The perfect soul before me glows
Immortal in the living stone.

And while upon her face I gaze
And scan her rarely rounded form,
The glory of her native days
Comes floating o'er me soft and warm; —

Comes floating, till this shadowy place
Brightens to noontide, and receives
The breath of that old harvest space,
With all its sunshine and its sheaves!