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ARIADNE. 157Then hot tears filled her eyes, and fell slowlyclown her pale cheeks." OnceItoo coidd make the marbles speak!"she murmured; and her fainting soul stirredin her, and awoke to a sense of its own lostpower.She did not ask howit was that Hermes washere in the palace of the pope — not then; shestood looking at the statue, and seeming, as itwere,slowly to gather fromit remembrance andstrength, and the desires of art,and the secretsof art's creation.That desire of genius which in the artist neverwholly dies, and makes the painter in the swoonof death behold goldenhorizons and lovely citiesof the clouds, and the musician hear the musicof the spheres, and the poet rave of worldsbeyond the sun; that desire, or instinct, orpower, be it what it wiU, woke inher at the feetof Hermes; Hermes, who had seen all hereffort and watched all her dreams, and beenthe silent witness of those first kisses of passionwhich had burned away her genius beneaththem.