of the frequently attendant cherubim, it consists in making the infant countenance-at times so expressive of intuitive perception-more completely its type. But, throughout his works, Raphael cannot be considered to be in general successful in the Christ. There are, however, so far, exceptions to this; but he probably attempted more (though this cannot be said to be apparent by study or labour) to pursue an idea, and more to present what was in conformity to that, than altogether to rely upon the expression with which his powers coincided. These, however, although ample and eminent in many subordinate characters, and necessary as part of the expression of the union of the divine and human in this instance, are not sufficient for its whole. Nor did the intellectuality of Michael Angelo effect it; here he again was deficient in what Raphael possessed.
Next to these, the characters which frequently recur, and continue most distinctly to exemplify the nature of his genius, are the young St John, St Elizabeth, Mary Magdalene, Joseph, and St John the beloved-each of which present different features of sentiment under the same influence.
But, although particular characters may be specified as affording the most direct exemplification of what has been stated to distinguish Raphael, it must be kept in view, that the qualities peculiar to his genius cannot almost be said to exist more in one instance than in another; although, from the subject of his works coinciding with it, it may be more fully displayed. What must be considered the spirit of his works, was frequently opposed to that of their letter or subject. This, a reference to the Battle of Constantine, may exemplify. It cannot be considered to be, in an clementary or essential manner, expressive of strife and confliction. There is too much urbanity even in the anatomical expression. The whole is a very inadequate representation of the ruin and confusion of such a scene. In this it falls in comparison with Le Brun's Alexander passing the Granicus, and its value must rest upon its style and signification in other respects. The figure of Constantine is without much expression; but so far as it does possess such, it is not that of warlike energy, but of the reposed power of justice he is preceded by divine ministers. Throughout the whole, there
is scarcely a head, figure, or group, which impresses the idea of the awakened impetuosity of mortal combat. The figure of Mezentius presents a poor impersonation of the defeated and drowning tyrant; while the principal incident-the only feature which is not implied by such a subject, and the most efficiently produced in the work, refers to the refined miseries of civil and kindred strife-in the father recognising his slain son.
In the Incendio del Borgo-the Pope arresting the fire of the suburbs of Rome-the interest is altogether centred, to the disregard of the miracle, in incidents which exemplify affection and duty. The School of Athens, in a series of elevated characters, inculcates the dignity of wisdom-of mental superiority, which is met by youth with eager and implicit confidence in its dictates. The Dispute of the Sacrament presents numerous features of worth, intelligence, and consideration
the fiery zeal of theological disputation has no place. The subject is little heeded: the aspect and station of the personages of the assembly seem alone to be regarded.
But every work of Raphael might here be adduced. Each, more or less, exemplifies the sentiment—that, ruling throughout the whole, sacrifices, or probably, in the instance of their author, does not fully permit the apprehension of any other, which would materially interfere with its predominance. As a combined whole, in their essential tendency, the works of Raphael stand single and distinct among the various productions of the different arts.
The living poetry of Homer presents the self-boasted cause of Greek superiority-the union of the demigod heroism of its imagined chronology with actual history. The tragic poets of Grecce exhibit their overruling power of the gods. Greek sculpture is a perfected combination of reason and poetic sentiment in many various modes. Greek architecture is poetry united to the rigidity of mathematical law. The Eneid poetizes narrative; Lucan and Lucretius, Roman battle-fields and prevalent philosophy. Dante and Michael Angelo evulgate the fluctuating strife of intellect. Raphael recognises moral distinction under the influence of reposed benevolence; from which, in common with Pythagoras, Plato, and the evangelist St John, he derives his titlethe divine.
BY ALBERT PIKE-OF ARKANSAS.
GoD of the mighty deep! wherever now
The waves beneath thy brazen axles bow-
Whether thy strong proud steeds, wind-wing'd and wild,
Trample the storm-vex'd waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes, that reveal
The quick gyrations of each brazen wheel;
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering, like antique Chaos in his spasms,
In heaving mountains, and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes fleck'd with foam,
Career thy steeds, neighing with frantic glee
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea-
Whether thy coursers now career below,
Where, amid storm-wrecks, hoary sea-plants grow
Broad-leaved, and fanning with a ceaseless motion
The pale cold tenants of the abysmal ocean—
Oh, come! our altars waiting for thee stand,
Smoking with incense on the level strand!
Perhaps thou lettest now thy horses roam
Upon some quiet plain : no wind-toss'd foam
Is now upon their limbs, but leisurely
They tread with silver feet the sleeping sea,
'Fanning the waves with slowly floating manes
Like mist in sunlight: Haply, silver strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods unto thee, their king,
Chant, loud in praise: Apollo now doth gaze
With loving looks upon thee, and his rays
Light up thy steeds' wild eyes: A pleasant warm
Is felt upon the sea, where fierce cold storm
Has just been rushing, and the noisy winds
That Eolus now within their prison binds,
Flying with misty wings: Perhaps, below
Thou liest in green caves, where bright things glow
With myriad colours-many a monster cumbers
The sand a-near thee, while old Triton slumbers
As idly as his wont, and bright eyes peep
Upon thee every way, as thou dost sleep.
Perhaps thou liest on some Indian isle
Under a waving tree, where many a mile
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands
Heap'd up in many shapes by Naiad's hands,
And, blushing as the waves come rippling on,
Shaking the sunlight from them as they run
And curl upon the beach-like molten gold
Thick-set with jewellery most rare and old—
And sea-nymphs sit, and with small delicate shells
Make thee sweet melody, as in deep dells
We hear, of summer nights, by fairies made,
The while they dance within some quiet shade,
Sounding their silver flutes most low and sweet,
In strange but beautiful tunes, that their light feet
May dance upon the bright and misty dew
In better time: all wanton airs that blew
But lately over spice-trees, now are here,
Waving their wings, all odour-laden, near
The bright and laughing sea. Oh, wilt thou rise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice!
Bright-hair'd Apollo !-Thou who ever art
A blessing to the world whose mighty heart
For ever pours out love, and light, and life:
Thou at whose glance all things of earth are rife
With happiness-to whom in early spring
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they cling
On the steep mountain side, or in the vale
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze: thou for whom wind-stripp'd trees
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye: thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee: By all the names
That thou dost bear whether thy godhead claims
Phœbus or Sol, or golden-hair'd Apollo,
Cynthian or Pythian-if thou now dost follow
The fleeing night, oh hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!
Oh most high Poet!thou whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell:
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for a poet's theme most meet:
Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive
Great beauty every where in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the war
Of its unnumber'd waters; on the shore
Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged cliff
Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift
Full of strange lightning; or upon the brow
Of silent night, that solemnly and slow
Comes on the earth: Oh thou! whose influence
Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, tinges with thine own heart
Each thing thou meetest-thou who ever art
Living in beauty-nay, who art in truth
Beauty embodied-hear, while all our youth
With earnest calling cry!
Answer our hymn, and come to us most high!
Oh thou! who strikest oft thy golden lyre
In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire
Sweepest its strings upon the sunny glade,
While dances to thee many a village maid,
Decking her hair with wild-flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel, while reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart,
As though thou wert of this our world a part,
Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood,
While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude,
Flit round among the trees with merry leap
Like their God, Pan; and from fir thickets deep
Come up the Satyrs, joining the wild crew,
And capering for thy pleasure: From each yew,
And oak, and beech, the Wood-nymphs oft peep out
To see the revelry, while merry shout
And noisy laughter rings about the wood,
And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude
Oh, come! while we do sound
Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around!
Oh, most high prophet!-thou that showest men
Deep-hidden knowledge: thou that from its den
Bringest futurity, that it comes by
In visible shape, passing before the eye
Shrouded in visions: thou in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great Plagues upon the nations, with hot breath
Scorching away their souls, and sending death
Like fiery mist amid them; or again,
Like the sweet breeze that comes with summer rain,
Touching the soul with joy, thou sendest out
Bright Health among the people, who about
With dewy feet and fanning wings doth step,
And touch each poor, pale cheek with startling lip,
Filling it with rich blood, that leaps anew
Out from the shrivell'd heart, and courses through
The long forsaken veins!-Oh thou, whose name
Is sung by all, let us, too, dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright god, and come in beauty near!
Oh thou, the lover of the springing bow!
Who ever in the gloomy woods dost throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those thine arrows that with mid-day light
Thou proudly pointest: thou from whom grim bears
And lordly lions flee, with strange wild fears,
And hide among the mountains: thou whose cry
Sounds often in the woods, where whirl and fly
The time-worn leaves when, with a merry train,
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
The full-arm'd Ceres-when upon the sea
The brine-gods sound their horns, and merrily
The whole earth rings with pleasure-then thy voice
Stills into silence every stirring noise,
With utmost sweetness pealing on the hills,
And in the echo of the dancing rills,
And o'er the sea, and on the busy plain,
And on the air, until all voices wane
Before its influence-
Oh come, great god, be ever our defence!
By that most gloomy day, when with a cry
Young Hyacinth fell down, and his dark eye
Was fill'd with dimming blood—when on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing deep sighs: by those heart-cherish'd eyes
Of long-loved Hyacinth-by all the sighs
That thou, oh young Apollo! then didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull
Thy ever-quenchless eye, till men were full
Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimm'd,
And many a chant in many a fane was hymn'd
Unto the pale-eyed sun; the Satyrs stay'd
Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade
They came and look'd for thee; and all in vain
Poor Dian sought thy love, and did complain
For want of light and life;-By all thy grief,
Oh bright Apollo ! hear, and give relief
To us who cry to thee-
Oh come, and let us now thy glory see!
Oh Thou, most lovely and most beautiful!
Whether thy doves now lovingly do lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumbering upon
Some dreamy south wind: whether thou hast gone
Upon the heaven now—or if thou art
Within some floating cloud, and on its heart
Pourest rich-tinted joy: whether thy wheels
Are touching on the sun-forsaken fields,
And brushing off the dew from bending grass,
Leaving the poor green blades to look, alas!
With dim eyes at the moon (ah! so dost thou
Full oft quench brightness!)—Venus! whether now
Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing
Of thy fair doves is wet-while sea-maids bring
Sweet odours for thee (ah! how foolish they!
They have not felt thy smart!)
They know not, while in Ocean caves they play,
How strong thou art.
Where'er thou art, oh Venus! hear our song-
Kind goddess, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings; bright doves coo to thee
The while they twine their necks with quiet glee
Among the morning leaves; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we ever look;
Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook,
Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings
Of thy tired doves; and where his love-song sings,
With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird,
With notes that never but by thee are heard-
Oh, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now,
And with half-open eye
Drinkest in beauty-oh, most fair, that thou
Wouldst hear our cry!
Oh thou, through whom all things upon the earth
Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing mirth
Lengthens his note: thou whom the joyous bird
Singeth continuously: whose name is heard
In every pleasant sound: at whose warm glance
All things look brighter: for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the brimming vase,
To meet thy lip: thou at whose quiet pace
Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh,
And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff,
And pushes back the hair from his dim eyes,
To look again upon forgotten skies;
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