With emblematic purity attired
In a white vest, white as her marble neck Is, and the pillar of the throat would be But for the shadow by the drooping chin Cast into that recess the tender shade The shade and light, both there and every where, And through the very atmosphere she breathes, Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill That might from nature have been learnt in the hour
When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft Intensely from Imagination take
The treasure, what mine eyes behold see thou, Even though the Atlantic ocean roll between.
A silver line, that runs from brow to crown And in the middle parts the braided hair, Just serves to show how delicate a soil The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their colour emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seeking nought And shunning nought, their own peculiar life Of motion they renounce, and with the head Partake its inclination towards earth
In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness.
Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene,
Has but approached the gates of womanhood, Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, Will not be found.
Her right hand, as it lies Across the slender wrist of the left arm Upon her lap reposing, holds-but mark How slackly, for the absent mind permits No firmer grasp a little wild-flower, joined As in a posy, with a few pale ears
The common light; whose stillness charms the air, Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits
And in their common birthplace sheltered it 'Till they were plucked together; a blue flower Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed;
But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, (Her Father told her so) in youth's gay dawn Her Mother's favourite; and the orphan Girl, In her own dawn-a dawn less gay and bright, Loves it, while there in solitary peace She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. -Not from a source less sacred is derived (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction through the face diffused And the whole person.
Words have something told More than the pencil can, and verily
More than is needed, but the precious Art Forgives their interference-Art divine,
That both creates and fixes, in despite
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.
Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze Upon this solemn Company unmoved By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, Until I cannot but believe that they- They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows."
So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak : And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which by the visitation was disturbed.
-But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well,
Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!*
That posture, and the look of filial love
Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Dearly united, might be swept away From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored To their lost place, or meet in harmony So exquisite; but here do they abide, Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality,
Stretched forth with trembling hope?-In every realm,
From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, Thousands, in each variety of tongue That Europe knows, would echo this appeal; One above all, a Monk who waits on God In the magnific Convent built of yore To sanctify the Escurial palace. He- Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, A British Painter (eminent for truth In character, and depth of feeling, shown
By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, And are endeared to simple cottagers)— Came, in that service, to a glorious work, Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand, Graced the Refectory: and there, while both Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear Breathed out these words :-" Here daily do we sit, Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed,
THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED.
AMONG a grave fraternity of Monks, For One, but surely not for One alone, Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill, Humbling the body, to exalt the soul; Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong And dissolution and decay, the warm And breathing life of flesh, as if already Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced With no mean earnest of a heritage Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture! From whose serene companionship I passed Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; thou also-
Though but a simple object, into light Called forth by those affections that endear The private hearth; though keeping thy sole seat In singleness, and little tried by time, Creation, as it were, of yesterday- With a congenial function art endued For each and all of us, together joined
In course of nature under a low roof
*The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. It need scarcely be added, that Wilkie is the painter alluded to.
In the class entitled " Musings," in Mr. Southey's Minor Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, taken in childhood, and another upon a landscape painted by Gaspar Poussin. It is possible that every word of the above verses, though similar in subject, might have been written had the author been unacquainted with those beautiful effusions of poetic sentiment. But, for his own satisfaction, he must be allowed thus publicly to acknowledge the pleasure those two Poems of his Friend have given him, and the grateful influence they have upon his mind as often as he reads them, or thinks of them.
UPON SEEING A COLOURED DRAWING OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE IN AN ALBUM.
WHO rashly strove thy Image to portray? Thou buoyant minion of the tropic air; How could he think of the live creature-gay With a divinity of colours, drest
In all her brightness, from the dancing crest Far as the last gleam of the filmy train Extended and extending to sustain The motions that it graces-and forbear To drop his pencil! Flowers of every clime Depicted on these pages smile at time; And gorgeous insects copied with nice care Are here, and likenesses of many a shell Tossed ashore by restless waves,
Or in the diver's grasp fetched up from caves Where sea-nymphs might be proud to dwell: But whose rash hand (again I ask) could dare, 'Mid casual tokens and promiscuous shows, To circumscribe this Shape in fixed repose; Could imitate for indolent survey, Perhaps for touch profane,
Plumes that might catch, but cannot keep, a stain; And, with cloud-streaks lightest and loftiest, share The sun's first greeting, his last farewell ray!
Resplendent Wanderer! followed with glad eyes Where'er her course; mysterious Bird! To whom, by wondering Fancy stirred, Eastern Islanders have given
A holy name-the Bird of Heaven! And even a title higher still, The Bird of God! whose blessed will She seems performing as she flies Over the earth and through the skies In never-wearied search of Paradise- Region that crowns her beauty with the name She bears for us- -for us how blest,
How happy at all seasons, could like aim Uphold our Spirits urged to kindred flight On wings that fear no glance of God's pure sight, No tempest from his breath, their promised rest Seeking with indefatigable quest
Above a world that deems itself most wise When most enslaved by gross realities!
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