The Poetical Works of Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart. M.P Part 29

The Parcae.----Leaf the Second.

MAZARIN.

FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHOUT.

"I was walking, some days after, in the new apartments of his palace. I recognized the approach of the cardinal (Mazaria) by the sound of his slippered feet, which he dragged one after the other, as a man enfeebled by a mortal malady. I concealed myself behind the tapestry, and I heard him say, 'Il faut quitter tout cela!' ('I must leave all that!') He stopped at every step, for he was very feeble, and casting his eyes on each object that attracted him, he sighed forth, as from the bottom of his heart, 'II faut quitter tout cela! What pains have I taken to acquire these things! Can I abandon them without regret? I shall never see them more where I am about to go!'" &c.--MeMOIRES INeDITS DE LOUIS HENRI, COMTE DE BRIENNE, _Barriere's Edition_, vol. ii. p. 115.

Serene the Marble Images Gleam'd down, in lengthen'd rows; Their life, like the Uranides, A glory and repose.

Glow'd forth the costly canvas spoil From many a gorgeous frame; One race will starve the living toil, The next will gild the name.

That stately silence silvering through, The steadfast tapers shone Upon the Painter's pomp of hue, The Sculptor's solemn stone.

Saved from the deluge-storm of Time, Within that ark, survey Whate'er of elder Art sublime Survives a world's decay!

There creeps a foot, there sighs a breath, Along the quiet floor; An old man leaves his bed of death To count his treasures o'er.

Behold the dying mortal glide Amidst the eternal Art; It were a sight to stir with pride Some pining Painter's heart!

It were a sight that might beguile Sad Genius from the Hour, To see the life of Genius smile Upon the death of Power.

The ghost-like master of that hall Is king-like in the land; And France's proudest heads could fall Beneath that spectre hand.

Veil'd in the Roman purple, preys The canker-worm within; And more than Bourbon's sceptre sways The crook of Mazarin.

Italian, yet more dear to thee Than sceptre, or than crook, The Art in which thine Italy Still charm'd thy glazing look!

So feebly, and with wistful eyes, He crawls along the floor; A dying man, who, ere he dies, Would count his treasures o'er.

And, from the landscape's soft repose, Smiled thy calm soul, Lorraine; And, from the deeps of Raphael, rose Celestial Love again.

In pomp, which his own pomp recalls, The haggard owner sees Thy cloth of gold and banquet halls, Thou stately Veronese!

While, cold as if they scorn'd to hail Creations not their own, The G.o.ds of Greece stand marble-pale Around the Thunderer's throne.

There, Hebe brims the urn of gold; There, Hermes treads the skies; There, ever in the Serpent's fold, Laoc.o.o.n deathless dies.

There, startled from her mountain rest, Young Dian turns to draw The arrowy death that waits the breast Her slumber fail'd to awe.

There, earth subdued by dauntless deeds, And life's large labours done, Stands, sad as Worth with mortal meeds, Alcmena's mournful son.[B]

They gaze upon the fading form With mute immortal eyes;-- Here, clay that waits the hungry worm; There, children of the skies.

Then slowly as he totter'd by, The old Man, unresign'd, Sigh'd forth: "Alas! and must I die, And leave such life behind?

"The Beautiful, from which I part, Alone defies decay!"

Still, while he sigh'd, the eternal Art Smiled down upon the clay.

And as he waved the feeble hand, And crawl'd unto the porch, He saw the Silent Genius stand With the extinguish'd torch!

The world without, for ever yours, Ye stern remorseless Three; What, from that changeful world, secures Calm Immortality?

Nay, soon or late decays, alas!

Or canva.s.s, stone, or scroll; From all material forms must pa.s.s To forms afresh, the soul.

'Tis but in that _which doth create_, Duration can be sought; A worm can waste the canva.s.s;--Fate Ne'er swept from Time, a Thought.

Lives Phidias in his works alone?-- His Jove returns to air: But wake one G.o.dlike shape from stone, And Phidian thought is there!

Blot out the Iliad from the earth, Still Homer's thought would fire Each deed that boasts sublimer worth, And each diviner lyre.

Like light, connecting star to star, Doth Thought transmitted run;-- Rays that to earth the nearest are, Have longest left the sun.

The Parcae.--Leaf the Third.

ANDRe CHeNIER.

FAREWELL TO THE BEAUTIFUL, WITHIN.

"Andre Chenier, the original of whatever is truest to nature and genuine pa.s.sion, in the modern poetry of France, died by the guillotine, July 27, 1794. In ascending the scaffold, he cried, 'To die so young!' 'And there was something here!' he added, striking his forehead, not in the fear of death, but the despair of genius!"--See THIERS, vol. iv. p. 83.

Within the prison's dreary girth, The dismal night, before That morn on which the dungeon Earth Shall wall the soul no more,

There stood serenest images Where doomed Genius lay, The ever young Uranides Around the Child of Clay.

On blacken'd walls and rugged floors Shone cheerful, thro' the night, The stars--like beacons from the sh.o.r.es Of the still Infinite.

From Ida to the Poet's cell The Pain-beguilers stole; Apollo tuned his silver sh.e.l.l And Hebe brimm'd the bowl.

To grace those walls he needed nought That tint or stone bestows; Creation kindled from his thought: He call'd--and G.o.ds arose.

The visions Poets only know Upon the captive smiled, As bright within those walls of woe As on the sunlit child;

He saw the nameless, glorious things Which youthful dreamers see, When Fancy first with murmurous wings O'ershadows bards to be;

Those forms to life spiritual given By high creative hymn; From music born--as from their heaven Are born the Seraphim.[C]

Forgetful of the coming day, Upon the dungeon floor He sate to count, poor child of clay, The wealth of genius o'er;

To count the gems, as yet unwrought, But found beneath the soil; The bright discoveries claim'd by thought, As future crowns for toil.

He sees The Work his breath should warm To life, from out the air: The Shape of Love his soul should form, Then leave its birthright there!

He sees the new Immortal rise From her melodious sea; The last descendant of the skies For man to bend the knee--