An Inscription

Precious the box that Mary brake
Of spikenard for her Master's sake,
But ah! it held nought half so dear
As the sweet dust that whitens here.
The greater wonder who shall say:
To make so white a soul of clay,
From clay to win a face so fair,
Those strange great eyes, that sunlit hair
A-ripple o'er her witty brain, -
Or turn all back to dust again.

Who knows - but, in some happy hour,
The God whose strange alchemic power
Wrought her of dust, again may turn
To woman this immortal urn.

Richard Le Gallienne

Richard Le Gallienne was an English author and poet born on January 20, 1866. Known for his lyrical poetry, he was a key figure in the literary circles of the fin de siècle. He contributed to the literary magazine 'The Yellow Book' and was involved with the Rhymers' Club, an influential group of London-based poets. His works often explored themes of beauty, love, and nature. His influence extended to both sides of the Atlantic, and he spent the latter part of his life in the United States, where he continued to write until his death on September 15, 1947.

Richard Le Gallienne

Art

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

Morality

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

I Said - I Care Not

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

A Song Of Singers

Richard Le Gallienne, Simple Poetry

English

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The Alabaster Box

The spikenard was not wasted;--
All down the tale of years,
The fragrance of that broken alabaster
Still clings to Mary's memory,
As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.

Not less than Martha,
Mary served her Lord,
Although she but sat worshipping,
While Martha spread the board.

They also minister to Christ,
And render noblest duty,
Whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds
To Fragrance and to Beauty.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Epitaph For Maria Wentworth

And here the precious dust is laid;
Whose purely-temperd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betrayd.

Else the soul grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shell of sin,
And so was hatchd a cherubin.

In height, it soard to God above;
In depth, it did to knowledge move,
And spread in breadth to general love.

Before, a pious duty shind
To parents, courtesy behind;
On either side an equal mind.

Good to the poor, to kindred dear,
To servants kind, to friendship clear,
To nothing but herself severe.

So, though a virgin, yet a bride
To evry grace, she justified
A chaste polygamy, and died.

Learn from hence, reader, what small trust
We owe this world, where virtue must,
Frail as our flesh, crumble to...

Thomas Carew

Rhymes On The Road. Extract XV. Rome.

Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.


No wonder, MARY, that thy story
    Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.
The soul's corruption and its glory,
    Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find
    Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,--like demons shrined
    Unholily in that fair form,--
Till when by touch of Heaven set free,
    Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY),
    And covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!--
Thence on thro' all thy c...

Thomas Moore

Mary

She brought her alabaster flask
Well-filled with precious nard;
Nor did she deem the act a task,
Nor look for great reward;
She only thought of His great love,
And felt her gift was small
For Him who left His home above
To suffer death for all.
But her blest Lord more highly prized
The loving heart that gave;
For loveless gifts are e'er despised,
Yet men oft seek to pave
The way that leads to glory land
With deeds devoid of grace;
But only those who love can stand
Approved before His face.

Joseph Horatio Chant

To Madame Jumel

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair,
Had I a god's re-animating breath,
Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air
Lethean and the eyeless halls of death,
Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair,
Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom,
And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.

Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust,
Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire;
Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust
Would light us back to glory and desire,
And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust;
Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame.
Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.

Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould
That lies on by-gone traffickings of state,
Transformed a moment by that head of gold,
Touching the pal...

Richard Le Gallienne

On The Monument Of A Fair Maiden Lady[1], Who Died At Bath, And Is There Interred.

    Below this marble monument is laid
    All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
    Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd;
    The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
    And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
    One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
    Such were the features of her heavenly face,
    Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace:
    So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
    Had been an emanation of the soul:
    Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd
    And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd.
    Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light:
    Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight.
    Each thought was visible that roll'd within:
    As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
    A...

John Dryden