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CRUCE AND CORONA.
And glory in its true, best sense is hers,—That which a noble thinker called "the cryOf sympathy and recognition" hers.
The pictures many whose ideas highWere of her soul the bright and holy birth;Yet no one gives such luster to her fameAs this whereon we gaze, and there beholdThe transcript of her vision, which she toldHer teacher in that far-off island homeIn holy quiet of the Sabbath eve.
The setting sun on Venice shines. The west,With almost fearful splendor all aglow,With glist'ning brightness gilds cathedral spires,And on the waters down its glory casts.
Before her canvas sits Corona now,The canvas bright with beauteous imagery.Her pencil, wand'ring o'er it here and there,The last perfecting touches ling'ring gives.And now the pencil from her fingers drops.She gazes. The mysterious, sacred aweThat only to the genius-gifted comesWhen on their souls' creation they can look,And feel. like God's creation, it is good,Intense and holy moves through all her soul.
