One of the most beautiful of his temples was built within a myrtle grove,
the God being extended in the attitude of a sleeping child, under the title
of L'Amore Dominatore.
"They built a temple for the God,
'Twas in a myrtle grove,
Where the sweet bee and butterfly,
Vied for each blossom's love.
"I looked upon the altar,--there
The pictured semblance lay,
Of him the temple's lord, it shone
More beautiful than day.
"It was a sleeping child, as fair
As the first-born of spring:
Like Indian gold waved the bright curls,
In many a sunny ring.
"I heard them hymn his name, his power,
I heard them, and I smiled:
How could they say the earth was ruled,
By but a sleeping child?
"I went then forth into the world,
To see what might be there;
And there I heard a voice of woe,
Of weeping, and despair.
"I saw a youthful warrior stand
In his first light of fame,
His native city, filled the air
With her deliverer's name:
"I saw him hurry from the crowd,
And fling his laurel crown,
In weariness, in hopelessness,
In utter misery down.
"And what the sorrow, then I asked.
Can thus the warrior move,
To scorn his meed of victory?
They told me it was Love!
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"I sought the Forum, there was one,
With dark and haughty brow,
His voice was as the trumpet's tone,
Mine ear rings with it now.
"They quailed before his flashing eye,
They watched his lightest word:
When suddenly that eye was dim,
That voice no longer heard.
"I looked upon his lonely hour,
The weary solitude:
When over dark, and bitter thoughts,
The sick hearts' left to brood.
"I marked the haughty spirit's strife,
To rend its bonds in vain:
Again I heard the cause of ill,
And heard loves name again.
"I saw an Urn, and round it hung,
An April diadem
Of flowers, telling they mourned one,
Faded and fair like them.
"I turned to tales of other days,
They spoke of breath and bloom:
And proud hearts that were bowed by love,
Into an early tomb.
"I heard of every suffering,
That on this earth can be:
How can they call a sleeping child,
A likeness, love, of thee?
"They cannot paint thee, let them dream
A dark and nameless thing:
Why give the likeness of the dove,
Where is the serpent's sting?