22 DECEMBER 1883, Page 14

SONNET.

ON THE "ECCE HOMO" OF CORREGGIO.

TlIE parted, livid lips, the soft brown hair

That falls about His neck, the thorny crown Wounding his brow, the blood-drops trickling down, The mocking purple robe, cold Pilate's stare And pointing finger, the crossed wrists that wear The cords, with upturned face that melts in pain, The swooning Mother, and the Magdalen, The rapt, rough soldier's gaze,—all these are there.

These could another paint. But who, save thee, Supreme Allegri! with his brush could limn Those eyes that speak an elemental woe, Pent up, till, thrilling sadly from the Tree, The Son's prayer rose, while Calvary grew dim,— " Father, forgive, they know not what they do."

HERBERT B. GARROD.