IIN PARIS all look’d hot and like to fade.
Brown in the garden of the Tuileries,
Brown with September, droop’d the chestnut-trees.
’Twas dawn; a brougham roll’d through the streets, and made
Halt at the white and silent colonnade
She follows the gay world, whose swarms have fled
Ah, where the spirit its highest life hath led,
IIUnto a lonely villa in a dell
Above the fragrant warm Provencal shore
The dying Rachel in a chair they bore
Up the steep pine-plumed paths of the Estrelle,
And laid her in a stately room, where fell
The fret and misery of our northern towns,
Do for this radiant Greek-soul’d artist cease;
IIISprung from the blood of Israel’s scatter’d race,
At a mean inn in German Aarau born,
To forms from antique Greece and Rome uptorn,
Trick’d out with a Parisian speech and face,
Imparting life renew’d, old classic grace;
Ah, not the radiant spirit of Greece alone
Germany, France, Christ, Moses, Athens, Rome.