1. botta
Bryant (Botta)

        Like the ancient Grecian marbles,

            Is his soul with beauty fraught,

        And as polished and enduring

            Is the sculpture of his thought.

 

        In the Pantheon of our country,
...

Poet:
Charity (Botta)

           O Thou who once on earth beneath the weight

              Of our mortality didst live and move,

              The incarnation of profoundest love;

           Who on the Cross that love didst consummate,

              ...

Poet:
Cheney (Botta)

        The Paint-King, envious of his cunning art,

            To him the tinted palette would not lend;

        So has he dipped the pencil in his heart,

            And with his light and shade its hues still blend.
Poet:
Durand (Botta)

        Upon his canvas Nature starts to life,

            Clear waters flow, majestic trees arise, --

        The earth and air with beauty's shapes are rife,

            And over all there bend his glorious skies.

 
...

Poet:
Epigram (Botta)

        A draught from Helicon could once inspire

            The bard to wing in song his loftiest flight;

        But poets of these later times require

            A draft from Wall Street, payable at sight.

 

...

Poet:
Eros (Botta)

                As when untaught and blind,

        To the mute stone the pagan bows his knee,

        Spirit of Love! phantom of my own mind!

                So have I worshipped thee!

 

                When first a...

Poet:
Hope (Botta)

        Maiden! in whose kindling eye,

        Burns the fire of prophecy,

        On whose brow its glories shine,

        Priestess at the hidden shrine;

        Tell me what fair visions rise,

        As the future...

Poet:
The Ideal (Botta)

        "How the shadow the Ideal throws before it

        darkens the actual." -- Zanoni

 

        "La vie est un sommeil, l'amour en est le rêve;."

 

        A sad, sweet dream; it fell upon my soul
...

Poet:
Indian Summer (Botta)

           O sweet, sad autumn of the waning year,

             Though in thy bowers the roses all lie dead,

             And from thy woods the song of birds has fled,

           And winter, stern and cold, is hovering near;
...

Poet:
Lines (Botta)

        Sing me that song again,

            That wild, impassioned lay;

        The tumult of my throbbing brain

            Thy voice shall charm away.

 

        Pour that harmonious flood

            ...

Poet: