The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 184

Among these visions there was one,[3]

Surpa.s.sing fair, on which the sun, That instant risen, a beam let fall, Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled.

And reached at length the spot where all Those great magicians stood a.s.sembled.

And as they turned their heads to view The s.h.i.+ning l.u.s.tre, I could trace The bright varieties it threw On each uplifted studying face:[4]

While many a voice with loud acclaim Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now--the sun had risen From out the dungeon of old Night.-- Like the Apostle from his prison Led by the Angel's hand of light; And--as the fetters, when that ray Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5]

So fled the clouds at touch of day!

Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6]

Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand, To trace upon the dusky earth Strange learned figures with his wand; And oft he took the silver lute His little page behind him bore, And waked such music as, when mute, Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on, And forms and faces that from out A depth of shadow mildly shone Were in the soft air seen about.

Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed, Yet all like living sisters seemed, So close in every point resembling Each other's beauties--from the eyes Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling, Yet soft as if suffused with sighs, To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, Lovelily tapering, less and less, Till by this very charm's excess, Like virtue on the verge of sin, It touched the bounds of ugliness.

Here lookt as when they lived the shades Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids-- Such maids as should alone live on In dreams thus when their charms are gone: Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes A painter for whole years might gaze,[7]

Nor find in all his pallet's dyes One that could even approach their blaze!

Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one, With her white fingers to the sun Outspread as if to ask his ray Whether it e'er had chanced to play On lilies half so fair as they!

This self-pleased nymph was Vanity-- And by her side another smiled, In form as beautiful as she, But with that air subdued and mild, That still reserve of purity, Which is to beauty like the haze Of evening to some sunny view, Softening such charms as it displays And veiling others in that hue, Which fancy only can see thro'!

This phantom nymph, who could she be, But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay To weave his spells and still there past, As in the lantern's s.h.i.+fting play Group after group in close array, Each fairer, grander, than the last.

But the great triumph of his power Was yet to come:--gradual and slow, (As all that is ordained to tower Among the works of man must grow,) The sacred vision stole to view, In that half light, half shadow shown, Which gives to even the gayest hue A sobered, melancholy tone.

It was a vision of that last,[9]

Sorrowful night which Jesus past With his disciples when he said Mournfully to them--"I shall be "Betrayed by one who here hath fed "This night at the same board with me."

And tho' the Saviour in the dream Spoke not these words, we saw them beam Legibly in his eyes (so well The great magician workt his spell), And read in every thoughtful line Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved, Not angered to be thus deceived-- Celestial love requited ill For all its care, yet loving still-- Deep, deep regret that there should fall From man's deceit so foul a blight Upon that parting hour--and all _His_ Spirit must have felt that night.

Who, soon to die for human-kind, Thought only, mid his mortal pain, How many a soul was left behind For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene--alas!

That scene so bright so soon should pa.s.s But pictured on the humid air, Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10]

And storms came on, that, cold and rough, Scattered its gentlest glories all-- As when the baffling winds blow off The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,-- Till one by one the vision's beams Faded away and soon it fled.

To join those other vanisht dreams That now flit palely 'mong the dead,-- The shadows of those shades that go.

Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.--For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light s.h.i.+ned in the prison ... and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repet.i.tion of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

_Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen.

--Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works_.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.

The soul's corruption and its glory, Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find Thy spirit haunted by a swarm Of dark desires,--like demons shrined Unholily in that fair form,-- Till when by touch of Heaven set free, Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold (So oft the gaze of BETHANY), And covering in their precious fold Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years!-- Thence on thro' all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,--Him Whose bitter death-cup from above Had yet this cordial round the brim, That woman's faith and love stood fast And fearless by Him to the last:-- Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine!

Thou wert of all the chosen one, Before whose eyes that Face Divine When risen from the dead first shone; That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, Had past away its mortal shroud, And make that bright revealment known To hearts less trusting than thy own.

All is affecting, cheering, grand; The kindliest record ever given, Even under G.o.d's own kindly hand, Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face, In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place, Where Man before his G.o.d appears, Hopeless--were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardoned thee!

No wonder that the painter's skill Should oft have triumpht in the power Of keeping thee all lovely still Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour; That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse His melting shadows round thy form; That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues Should in portraying thee grow warm; That all--from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand, Down to the small, enameling touch Of smooth CARLINO--should delight In picturing her, "who loved so much,"

And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes-- A vision worthy of the sphere Thy faith has earned thee in the skies, And in the hearts of all men here,-- None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace, CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face, In those bright sculptured forms, more bright With true expression's breathing light, Than ever yet beneath the stroke Of chisel into life awoke.

The one,[1] portraying what thou wert In thy first grief,--while yet the flower Of those young beauties was unhurt By sorrow's slow, consuming power; And mingling earth's seductive grace With heaven's subliming thoughts so well, We doubt, while gazing, in _which_ place Such beauty was most formed to dwell!-- The other, as thou look'dst, when years Of fasting, penitence and tears Had worn thy frame;--and ne'er did Art With half such speaking power express The ruin which a breaking heart Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness.

Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, Even still, of all their youthful grace, That loosened hair of which thy brow Was once so proud,--neglected now!-- Those features even in fading worth The freshest bloom to others given, And those sunk eyes now lost to earth But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine-- Tho' springing from a soul that feels Deep wors.h.i.+p of those works divine Where Genius all his light reveals-- How weak 'tis to the words that came From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2]

Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight; And while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays[3]

Give thee with all the generous zeal Such master spirits only feel, That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.