Rachel

Unto 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 shadow of a marble Muse of yore,—
The rose-crowned queen of legendary lore,
Polymnia,— full on her death-bed. 'Twas well!
The fret and misery of our northern towns,
In this, her life's last day, our poor, our pain,
Our jangle of false wits, our climate's frowns.
Do for this radiant Greek-souled artist cease;
Sole object of her dying eyes remain
The beauty and the glorious art of Greece.