Such is the lot of all the young,
However bright and fair.
Lo! Streams that April could not check Are patient of thy rule; Gurgling in foamy water-break, Loitering in glassy pool: By thee, thee only, could be sent Such gentle mists as glide, Curling with unconfirmed intent, On that green mountain's side.
How delicate the leafy veil
Through which yon house of God Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale,
By few but shepherds trod! And lowly huts near beaten ways
No sooner stand attired
In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise Peep forth, and are admired.
Season of fancy and of hope, Permit not for one hour,
A blossom from thy crown to drop, Nor add to it a flower!
Keep, lovely May, as if by touch
Of self-restraining art,
This modest charm of not too much,
Part seen, imagined part!
SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE.
BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care
Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen Or book regardless, and of that fair scene In Nature's prodigality displayed Before my window, oftentimes and long I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam Of beauty never ceases to enrich
The common light; whose stillness charms the air, Or seems to charm it, into like repose; Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits, 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 everywhere, And through the very atmosphere she breathes, Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill That might from nature have been learnt in the
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
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 color emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seeking naught And shunning naught, 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
Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped 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 favorite; 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,
That both creates and fixes, in despite
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.
Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! 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 fleshy 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? 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 labors 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,
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