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39
[Young Mother, with thy babe at rest]
Young Mother, with thy babe at rest,
Warm-pillow'd on thy happy breast,
Thou leaning tenderly above
With face of deep contented love,
There is not elsewhere any sight
On earth more bright with heavenly light;
The gates of death and hell are shut,
The joyful skies wide open, . . . but—
Warm-pillow'd on thy happy breast,
Thou leaning tenderly above
With face of deep contented love,
There is not elsewhere any sight
On earth more bright with heavenly light;
The gates of death and hell are shut,
The joyful skies wide open, . . . but—
But—“O Raffael of the dear Madonnas!”
Painted well for sumptuous Holy Fathers!
—Better, Painter, with thy Fornarina!
Kisses from thy sweetheart's mouth are purer
Than Saint Peter's ceremonial blessing.
Child and Mother—sweet, pathetic, pious;
Child and Virgin—how familiar usage
Blinds to shame of natural truth dishonour'd!
World of circumstance and old tradition,
How it plots, with gift and threat and flattery,
Men of genius, to ensnare you likewise!
—“O our Raffael”—O our English Robert!
Painted well for sumptuous Holy Fathers!
—Better, Painter, with thy Fornarina!
Kisses from thy sweetheart's mouth are purer
Than Saint Peter's ceremonial blessing.
Child and Mother—sweet, pathetic, pious;
Child and Virgin—how familiar usage
Blinds to shame of natural truth dishonour'd!
World of circumstance and old tradition,
How it plots, with gift and threat and flattery,
Men of genius, to ensnare you likewise!
—“O our Raffael”—O our English Robert!
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