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CRUCE AND CORONA.
Are sacred in the memories of earth.Musicians, sculptors, poets by me passedIn glorious array.My guide moved on;And, ent'ring what an inner temple seemed,I saw a golden altar rainbow-crowned;Beside it knelt the priestess of that artWhose gifted children on those walls had traced,In hues immortal, their immortal thoughts.
My guide withdrew. And from the altar roseThe priestess from her ministries, and gazedUpon me with her holy eyes; then said,'O child of genius, welcome! thou art comeTo Art's high temple, and before the shrineOf painting, glorious art.My child, receiveThe blessing of its priestess. Go thy way;With holy ardor be thy labor wrought;A bright reward awaits thee: Win thy crown.'"
The vision thus repeated, silence comes;And not a sound is heard within the bow'r,Save rustling of the vine-leaves in the breeze.Corona's gaze is on the old man bent,As if his words awaiting; and his eyesAre fixed on her with look of calm, deep joy.
