Madmoments: or First Verseattempts :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Bread of Immortality is earn'd
If not with sweat of the earthbended brow,
Yet still with sore Soultravail, and is turned
To bane if taken carnally: when no
Celestial Leaven of high hopes, that know
No base alloy, is mixed therewith to make
It Git food for those pure lips whence should flow
Truth's blessed accents: for its own sole sake
We must seek for it, and no earthly wages take!

2

Oh! miserable Man! who sets a price
On divine things and estimates them by
Silver and Gold, like vulgar merchandice:
And who can work out with their agency
Only the Perishable, which must die
With him and leave no during trace behind!
Who hides the divine radiance of the sky
Beneath the bushel, that upon his blind
Molepaths its selfish light may shine, not on mankind!

3

Go ask the Grave why o'er the sublime brow
Of Genius, cut down like a Summerflower,
The hand of cold neglect so oft doth throw
Th' untimely Earth? Go, ask it if the dower
Of a toofeeling heart be not a poor
Breastplate against the shafts of Calumny?
'Tis but the Intoxication of an hour,
In which we drink Ambrosia from the sky,
Then reach the bitter dregs that at the bottom lie!

403

4

Go! call, in Santa Croce, on the Shade
Of the great Florentine, and ask him whom
He chose unto his Bride: was his Heart made
Less than the Herd's for Love, or sought he some
More heavenly Spouse, no Subject of the Tomb,
Whose Beauty Worm defaces not: and who
Might make him Father by her divine Womb
Of an enduring Offspring, firm and true
To that calm, serene Love which changes not its hue

5

Like earthly passion, which lights up the Eye
With a false, feverish fire, and then dies
Out in its own vile ashes, smothered by
The snows of age: mixed aye with bitter sighs
For the lost «Beautiful», which to our eyes
The jealous Earth restores not! not such Love
His divine Bride bore him, nor such the Ties,
Which knit in Youth, in Age remained unwove:
But breathing one same life, all Chance and Change above!

6

And when his head grew grey, still by his side
She stood, more lovely than in those fresh years
Of Hope and pure Delight, when as his Bride
He plighted her his Faith: the bitter tears
Shed in wardly for ills the proud soul bears
In silence, and the smileless lip, whereon
Is throned the calm scorn of the Envier's sneers,
These did she compensate: she who alone
Had felt his last Heartbeat, still answering her own!

404

7

Go, wake Domenichino from that rest
Which in this life he found not: ask him why
The grave affords the weary head its best
And softest pillow; and tho' now his eye
Be filled with calm light of Eternity
And he can look back with untroubled brow
On the pale, quivering lip, and smothered sigh,
Yet with a bitter smile he'll tell thee how
Much vile dust on Fame's laurels Envy's hand can throw!

8

Oh! feelingly, with Eloquence supplied
By griefs that found no voice, will he relate
Of the stern struggles 'twixt th' Immortal's pride
And the man's frailties: struggles to create
The blessed calmness of a better State
'Mid the vain fret and fever of this Life:
Of Evil tongues, and that unwearied Hate
Which dogged his steps, and with its noise and strife
Disturbed him in the arms e'en of his divine Wife!

9

He'll tell thee sublime Genius, oft by
The paltry standard of vile custom tried
And comprehended not, must learn to ply
His task like the despisëd daydrudge: hide
His tears of holy Joy, and dwarf his stride
To the world's pace, for if his Tongue betrays
The secret of his heart, or if his wide
And ample ken o'erlooks the World's dull ways,
Then in a Madhouse he may chance to end his days!

10

If with th' Allmeasure of enduring Thought
And fearless Truth he make his estimate,
And not with that by which all things are bought
And sold, yea, e'en the holiest: if he rate
Forms, Customs, Modes, at their legitimate
Intrinsic Worth, not by the Threefootrule
Employed in Life's vile traffic, he must wait
'Till Time rear up disciples for his school,
And make the sage revered once bray'd at as a Fool!

405

11

He'll speak of toil requited not, save by
The still, small, Voice, that whispered in his ear,
Not to the sensual organ but that high
And serene faculty which still can hear
Communications from that higher sphere
From whence 'tis severed, like the Oceanshell:
That Voice, which warned him that all glory here
Is but a shadowsshade: that in its cell
The Soul, as in a holy Hermitage, should dwell

12

On Contemplation's heights, far from the crowd
And all its passing uproar: breathing there
Of a diviner Element, by cloud
And mists of Earthliness, by Passion, Care,
And Prejudice undimm'd: and seeking, (where
Alone 'tis found) within the inmost Shrine,
The perfect Beauty, which the Soul doth bear
With it from Heav'n, an heritage divine:
That Jewel which no impure passion's breath should tine

13

In whose clear surface, as it lies enchas'd
In the Heartsdepths, we see the Ether blue,
Celestial Mansions, and bright Angels placed
Around God's throne: thus learning to renew
The memory of Glories which we knew
In happier climes: that perfect Beauty here
Felt consciously but by the chosen few,
Who in calm selfcontentedness, by fear,
And vain doubts unperplexed, draw now the Atmosphere,

14

In long, full, draughts of Immortality:
No tumult in the beatings of the heart,
No feverish Passion in the quiet eye,
But that foretasting Faith, which can impart
Unto Life's troublous pulse, by divine Art,
The blessed calmness of Eternity;
Until we stand, as in a dream, apart
From the vile passions which around us ply
Their tasks, then wake and find our dream Reality!

406

15

Behold the Poet kneeling at the Shrine
Of Truth, receiving the Communionbread
Of Immortality, the Cup divine,
Which shall pour Ichor thro 'his veins instead
Of this dull blood; behold him too when wed
To the sole Bride his arms should e'er embrace,
The Helen of chaste Art, whose form has fed
His 'midnight visions, and whose radiant face,
Leaning above his pillow in its divine Grace,

16

Hath pressed on his young lips a holy kiss,
A nuptial kiss, and sweetened them to speak
In accents worthy of the realms of bliss;
Oh! let him keep his plighted Faith and seek
No meaner mistress, for if once so weak
As to renew his kindred with Decay,
His Fault will gnaw with selfavenging Beak,
In shame and sorrow shall he turn away,
He clasps her to his Heart, and finds her common clay!

17

Better that from the Muse's divine breast
Her Fosterchild were pluck'd by hands unkind-
Ly kind away, ere he have lost all zest
For pleasures wherein simple mortals find
Life's crowning charm; that milk was not design'd
For lips that kiss the Beauty of Decay,
And they who're nursed on its are 'mong the Blind
Like men who with a microscope survey
The coarse and homely features of this poor, dull clay!

18

Oh! let him cleave unto his divine Bride,
On her calm Bosom let him lay his head,
Rejoicing still that he has nought to hide
From her high Scrutiny; he must be dead
To sensual passion, alletherealized,
Ere Commune with her he can hold or reap
The Joys of that chaste Wedlock, which instead
Of the parch'd, throbbing brow, and feverish sleep,
Shall yield him holy raptures, lasting, calm, and deep!

407

19

Aye, Raptures deep and inexhaustible
As is the Soul itself, pure Joys that flow
Unceasingly from out the living well
Whence Milton's lips derived their sacred glow;
Far sweeter than famed Castaly, altho'
That too gush'd from the universal heart
Of Nature at the Pegasean blow,
One of those veins which run thro' every part,
Traced but by the Diviningrod of heavenly Art!

20

Which in a Homer's or a Shakespear's Hand
Can open up perennial founts of song,
Poured like a Nile, thro' all the mighty Land
Of Thought, to fertilize; and while along
It flows on its eternal course, in strong
Yet calm, majestic tide, as in a dream,
Cities and Empires, and the idle gleam
Of worldly Pomps pass from its banks, and seem
No more than fleeting shadows mirrored briefly in the stream!

21

Then let him cleave unto his Bride; for oh!
If once estranged from her, into what Breast
Shall he pour forth the secret of his woe?
Where look for Solace? doth he not divest
Himself of vulgar sympathies, and rest
His hopes and fears upon a nobler base?
Then who can comprehend him, save this best
And only friend; tho' in the selfsame place
And the same air men breathe, they're of a different race!

22

A wide gulf gapes between them, and with him
They can have no Communion: his ways
Are unaccountable, his Joys, a whim!
Yea! the celestial smile, whose beauty plays
About his lips, that with its holy rays
Lights up the glistening eye, as tho 'he saw
Some Angel floating in the sunsetsblaze,
Is mockery to those who 'mid the war
Of Earth's vile passions fret, and squabble for a straw!

408

23

He who has looked into the life of things,
How can he toil for Mammon's wages, play
A Part on Life's dull stage, on Fancy's Wings
Is he not ever soaring far away,
Up towards the source of that diviner day
In which his Spirit breathes? yet, oh! e'en there,
When almost out of sight, the feeble clay
Reminds him whence he rose into that Air,
And that, once more on Earth, his neck must bend and wear

24

The galling yoke of Custom, like the least
Of those who in her dusty wheeltrack plod,
Scarce conscious of one thought above the beast;
Yea! even there, e'en when into the God
Expanding, from Mortality's dull load
Set free, the voice of Envy shall arise,
And reaching him, shrink up the growing God
Into the common man, and from the skies
Hurl him, like fallen Angel, 'mid the Jeers and Cries

25

Of the exulting Herd: if not, 'tmay be,
Like them to grovel in the dust, yet still
To feel himself akin to that which he
Had thought to cast aside: to feel his will
All powerless the bitter Truth to kill
Or stifle, ever ringing in his ears,
That they who at the Muse's bosom fill
Their veins, are beings of two different Spheres,
That in the Man's scant breast that milk a God uprears!

26

And that as he expands and fills this frame,
His narrow tenement, it wastes away,
An unfit vessel for the mighty flame
That burns within, which with its intense ray
Consumes the perishable lamp of Clay;
While in the common breast it lingers on
Down to the very socket, 'till Decay
Extinguish it and then at once are done
The faint, cold, flickering light, and that it fed upon!

409

27

Oh! many Ills wait on him who would tread
The paths of Fame, ere to that upperair
Where her high temple stands, his steps are led
By him who only gains admittance there,
Merit! who here below must often wear
The garb of Undesert, oft toil and sweat
For years in some forgotten corner, where
'Mid rags and poverty the divine heat
Breaks forth to light a world, from its despised retreat!

28

Abroad at random Nature casts the seed,
And not in Princes' smiles alone it grows,
Nor rules and learned Academies doth need;
For to Prescription Genius never bows
His sublime mind, but to himself still owes
Reward and motive; from the living well
Within the heart the divine Impulse flows,
And those who have it not might hope as well
The same, as without Faith to work a miracle!

29

Then place the masterpieces of all art
Before the dull, uncomprehendig eye,
The Eye of prose; think ye they will impart
To such a clue unto the mystery?
Alas the sëer and the seen must by
A divine Sympathy be but as one,
In his own soul the counterpart must lie,
Reflected clear, of that he looks upon,
'Tis nothing in itself, he makes it, he alone!

30

Yes, like Pygmalion he must embrace
The Statue, from the inmost soul must pour
Life into 'it, till mantling on the face
The sentiment, unfelt, unseen before
Grows visible, and with a holy Lore
The lips, erst cold and still, to him be fraught;
Then a dead Statue shall it seem no more,
But like himself, by holy passion wrought
To sympathy, the Beautiful, which he had sought!

410

31

The Muses have their home in our own heart:
Thence are their Oracles, and pompous schools,
With terms and phrase precise, may mark and chart
The road, with all appliances and tools
Needful thereto: and in the hands of fools
Place them, that likest mere machines they may
Measure an Helen's face, and fix by Rules
The Beautiful which turns in scorn away
Without one divine smile: unfelt, unknown, for aye!

32

In vain, in vain: by rules must they abide,
Within the Ellwand shall their Empire lie,
And never beyond that into the wide
And ample realm, yea, up to the blue sky,
And to its purest Ether, where hard by
God's throne Urania sits, and Fancy's wing
Ascends sometimes, shall they one step e'er try,
Their Lyre shall own not one celestial string,
Nor from the Spheres one Echo draw, backanswering!

33

This know they: and the knowledge to their hate
Adds sting aud venom, therefore when in some
Despisëd Nazareth, of low Estate
And far from Fortune' smiles, the Muse a home
Hath chosen for the favored one on whom
She heaps her divine gifts: and when she leads
Him forth, like Genius risen from the tomb,
The Doubters to convince, his presence breeds
Dismay and palelipped Fear, and wrinkled Custom reads

34

In every face of all her motley crew
Tokens of downfall, and the wormeat throne
She sits on shakes beneath her at these new
Signs of Revolt, which threaten to build on
The ruins of her Power a nobler one,
A loftier Dynasty, supported by
Pure Truth and Merit's right divine alone:
Then forth from her dark haunts doth Envy fly
With all her broods, begot on Mediocrity!

411

35

The manytonguëd Slander, full of Ears
And Eyes, with scowling Malice, and sly Hate
Coiling about the object which he fears,
Snakelike, and squinteyed Prejudice, fit mate
To doting Form who on his chair of State,
Like an old cripple sits, for aye in one
Same stiffening posture from time out of date!
Thro' all the realms of Dullness fear doth run,
Like Bats, when broken in on by the middaysun!

36

With these foes must he strive, and many more,
For the World loves not to be made more wise,
Or have its Idols broken: and before
A new Creed can count many votaries,
Or Admiration dares to canonize
Its founder as a Saint, the chances are
That he in Shame and Ignominy dies:
And they who lift Truth's veil quite up and bare
Her face too suddenly, had better first prepare

37

The poor worms it must shine on, lest they be
Struck blind and in their fury mar and break
The Beautiful, which they no longer see:
In uncongenial pursuits, that make
His sublime wings to flag when they would shake
Earth's dust aside and soar into the sky,
Oft must he toil, oft for the bodyssake
Sweat for the bitter bread of Poverty:
And that worst Ill of all, his better self belie!

38

Tho' Nature lays her irresistible
Strong hand upon him and points out the way,
Teaching him how to work some miracle
Of Art with any object that chance may
Supply him with, a bit of Chalk or Clay,
To put to shame professors and their schools:
Yet Genius vainly will his power display
To men whose every heartpulse Mammon rules,
His sublime task in their esteem is but the fool's!

412

39

Tis beautiful to give the heart, the whole
And undivided heart, without one thought
Save of their divine service and the goal,
A godlike boon unto the Muses, naught
Seeking nor wishing save the pleasure caught
From their calm smiles: but oh! 'tis bitter Woe
To desecrate a heart which they have brought
Up and have purified: to let Earth's low
Vile passions dim the glory gathering on the Brow!

40

Behold the wreath from Guido's temples fade,
And paling in the eye, its divine fire
Flashes but faintly thro' the thickening shade,
The film, thro' which the forms of pure desire,
Which erst upon his canvass would respire,
Grow indistinct and dim, no more he sees
Them floating past nor hears the heavenly Quire:
His divine Art no more hath power to please,
And in his famous hand the sublime pulse doth freeze:

41

For no more from the inmost heart the blood
Sent from its purest vein hath strength to flow,
And she who erst, unseen, beside him stood,
The fair inspiring angel, whispering low
With divine accents at his ear, is now
Mourning in her own Ether o'er his fall:
He hears her not: to shame and sin and woe
He 's sold himself, and like a wretched thrall,
For Bread and Hire toils, not at her divine call!

42

See godlike Vinci like a vile daydrudge
Receive his wages: see the man of Prose,
Who paltry as the sum is yet would grudge
A mite for such an object, for he knows
No value but by Gold, see how he throws
The money down, as if he had to pay
A tradesman's bill to whom his master owes
Some trifle, doling out, with much delay,
The last vile mite, as if he thought it thrown away:

413

43

And 'twixt his teeth he muttered as they fell,
«And all this for a picture»! «curse the race,
I wish they were all sent to paint in Hell»:
Methinks I see that more than mortal face,
That brow, which well old Homer's Jove would grace,
The calm eye looking thro' you, and the thought
Which over all hath left its sublime trace:
The arching eyebrow, and the whole so wrought
As Nature for the soul therein an emblem sought!

44

Methinks I see those noble features give
Way to their sublime wrath: not like that we
Frail mortals feel, with which we vainly strive,
O'ermastering us in our Impotency,
Like fretful Infants: not such wrath felt he,
But divine Indignation, like a God:
As if it were the price of Infamy,
He flung the gold to Earth, and on it trod,
For this I paint not said he and away he strode!

45

The noble Spirit in its anger grows
More godlike: from its very Purity,
Its Depth and Strength, its Indignation flows.
And as the Ocean, tho' tossed wild and high,
Preserves the Clearness of his Waters, by
No Sediment polluted, thus below
The Surface. from their Depth, their Souls still lie
Calm, strong and clear: but shallow Natures throw
Their Baseness to the surface, stirred by Passions low.

46

Thus Jove might hurl a thunderbolt, and so
Back to his own vile dust the worm was thrown,
Astonished yet not knowing why or how.
Those sublime words to him were as a Tone,
A Voice from other spheres, that with his own
Held no Communion: but for that day
And its proud triomph Vinci must atone;
He who Art's sceptre like a king would sway,
Must rule o'er other subjects than these Hearts of clay

414

47

These sublime Notions, which uphold the throne
Of Art and give it an enduring base,
And which can cherish and maintain alone
The holy Fire burning, find no place
In vulgar minds, impervious tho' the face
Of the bright Muse herself on them should shine:
To such Art is a trade, and they debase
It to their level, 'till no more divine,
It serves but to supply the mouth with Bread and Wine!

48

Their souls have no celestial thirst, and on
Their earthly Lips Ambrosia's self would taste
Just like the muddy draughts they dote upon.
And their arms, if by such the Muse's chaste
And radiant form could ever be embraced,
Would clasp her like a shape of common clay.
By these a price on heavenly things is placed,
And their far worse than Gothic Hands they lay
On God's own Image, bartering it for Gold away!

49

See him then forced his country to forsake,
Because his sublime Spirit could not bear
For divine things the dol'd out hire to take
As for some paltry Merchandice: see where
On Milan's Walls he labours, raising there
That Work wherein a whole Life's Treasures blend,
Which in itself is as a School of rare
Instruction, teaching both Art's Mean and End,
How that and Nature fresh charms to eachother lend!

50

Yet even there the Pedant and the Fool
With Custom's Microscope would criticize,
Measuring the Giant with their twelveinchrule:
And much of favor lost he in their Eyes,
Because his work did not with due speed rise,
Like to the Bricklayer's, so much in each Day!
Poor fools! who know not that the Soul supplies
To the brute hand the power to array
Its thoughts in visible forms, else but a Lump of Clay!

415

51

See Brunelleschi from the Councilhall
Thrust like a fool, because he was not one,
Behold him from that Elevation fall
To which his Genius raised him, and atone
By Shame and Insult because he alone
Could comprehend the thoughts of his own mind.
So perilous in this World to make known
The truths which prove most precious to Man kind,
The Torch which lights at last, at first is sure to blind!

52

And lo! Correggio, bent down beneath
His hardearned Gold, the grudged and paltry Hire,
Not worth one least Leaf of that fadeless Wreath
That shades his Brows: behold him sweat and tire
'Neath Mammon's Wages, the supreme Desire
Of meaner Natures—He must sacrifice
That Soul still glowing with its unquenched Fire,
Not half developed yet, because Men's Eyes
And Hearts are dull, and few with Genius sympat hize!

53

Alas! how few: a Riddle unto most,
Which puzzles and perplexes them, and none
Love what they comprehend not: thus the Frost
Of Form and Custom seldom by the Sun
Of Genius is thawed, 'till living run
Fresh from the Heart the Founts of Poesy.
The Hackneyed and the Weekday Men alone
Endure, and hold their Hands to screen their Eye
From Genius transfigured 'bove Humanity!

54

See Tasso, Fancy's child, roused from his dream
By the harsh Light of stern reality,
Which faintly thro' his Prisonbars doth gleam!
See Madness and Imagination try

416

Which shall possess him most, those strange Twins by
One womb brought forth, and therefore closeallied.
Behold the garland as in mockery
Placed on the pale Corpse which the bier doth hide,
Which Fame and Death's vile worms between them

55

Go, look at this, then tell me what is worth (thus divide!
The Laurelcrown upon the haggard brow
And sunken Eye? can all the powers of Earth
Give back its freshness to the heart, or throw
Hope's quickening dew upon the thorns which grow
Blossomless, sharp, and bare upon our way?
Can it unmemory the Past? Oh no!
Too late, too late comes all this proud array,
It dazzles not, for Grief has sobered us for aye!

56

Oh ye, on whom the Muses have bestow'd
No dazzling gifts, mourn not, for e'en these are
Oft linked with basest things; half Clay, half God,
Is Genius, breathing half in upperair,
Half grovelling in the Dust, a mixture rare
Of Elements from most opposëd spheres!
Now up, its sublime wings the Spirit bear
Far out of sight of Earth, its griefs and tears,
And now they droop and trail oppressed by vulgar fears!

57

Oft when at Fame and Virtue's topmost height
We seem to stand, immeasurably high,
The depths of meanness open 'neath our flight,
And thither may we, ere we well know why,
Sink down and with the mire level lie,
Companioned by the vilest of our kind!
See Titian by the Demon, Jealousy,
Hurled down from Ether, see brute passions blind
The Eye, once full of divine Light, within his Mind!

58

And ask ye wherefore? it is well ye know,
Then may ye turn, content to eat the Bread
Wrung from the daily sweat of Labour's Brow
Then may ye think upon the mighty dead

417

Nor feel your Littleness when hushed ye tread
Above their Graves, to which the Nations make,
As unto blessed ground and hallowëd,
Their Pilgrimage: for Envy's vulgar ache
Even from these high Souls the noblest part could take!

59

One Day as Titian 'mid his Scholars stood,
He saw some drawings, and enquired who
Had made them, for he thought them good: too good;
They pleased him much, and yet displeased him too.
The God within him recognized the true,
Ethereal Inspiration which impelled
The hand wherewith his own high works he drew,
And inly joyed: but jealousy withheld
The praise half on his tongue, the viler part had quelled

60

The nobler, and he turned displeased aside,
When Tintoretto, with a modest grace
And fear of fancied faults he could not hide,
Replied that he had made them: from his place
The Painter turned, by Jealousy made base,
And banished Tintoretto from his school.
The scolar's fame the Master's might efface,
So needful 'tis sometimes to be a fool,
And e'en of kindred Genius, Genius makes a tool!

61

But not the less did Tintoretto rise
To the bright Ether after which he sigh'd,
Wings had he, and wings are but for the skies.
Tho' to proud Titian's school he was denied
Admittance, yet, thank God, the World is wide,
And not to this or that school is confined
The priviledge to teach: on everyside
Beauty and Wisdom greet us, and the Mind
Than Nature wants no better Master nor can find!

62

Behold him now, the Muses' favored Son,
Nigh equal to that Painter, if not quite,
Who feared a rival in the youth halfgrown
With Soul prophetic, hoping by its spite

418

To mar a glorious Future: but her right
Has Nature vindicated: see him show
With a few sublime Strokes of Shade and Light
The literalminded Fleming how to throw
His soul upon the canvass, and with one bold blow

63

Accomplish more than weeks of vulgar toil,
Where the soul dozes while the fingers wake
To their dull task, still dabbling with vile Oil,
As Painting were but for the colors sake,
Not these for Painting: as if they could make
Aught noble without that creative thought
Which still the sublime pencil loves to take
In its inspired hand, wherewith are wrought
Forms not by Nature made, tho' she the Way hath taught!

64

Behold him full of Years and Glory, on
His grey Hairs rests the Laurel wreath which he
From earliest youth has laboured for alone.
Worthy old Man, most worthy thus to be
Inheritor of Immortality.
Art was to him a Worship and a Love;
And sought for her ownself, she setteth free,
Yea! this is her reward, she lifts above
All that debases and degrades, can raise and move

65

Our Hearts to sublime Joys, can solemnize
Its beatings and affections for the Sky,
And by its very Pains etherealize!
And what are Fame and Glory but a lie,
Compared with this? this feeling, calm and high,
Of having in ourselves our own reward.
A «certain Dante »! thus was mentioned by
Some nowforgotten chronicle the Bard,
Who ate the Beggar's bread, so bitter, salt and hard!

419

66

And this is Fame! and is it worth no more?
Is this then all for which we toil and sweat
Away youth's first, fresh years, and shut the door
Against the World's temptations, thus to meet
Neglect and cold Ingratitude? to fret
And gnaw our hearts away because we are
Unheeded as we pass along the street?
The crowd still gathers round the Conqueror's car,
While sublime Genius starves or looks on from afar!

67

So be it! let those mourn who cannot find
Within themselves a recompense; but thou,
Art, divine Art! hast treasures not designed
For such as these: let Fame her bubbles blow
For whom she will, their worth too well we know:
We toil for no vain Name, but for the True,
The Beautiful, which from the deep heart flow,
Yea! from that very fountain whence we drew
Our Being, and when found we hallow them to you!

68

And tho' we leave, when this brief life is o'er,
Not e'en a passing shadow on the wall,
To tell what we have been, or that we bore
A part in this strange Drama: tho' of all
We thought, felt, did, no thing however small
Remains to witness of us, not in vain,
Oh! not in vain, have we obeyed thy call,
Divinest Muse! in Sorrow and in Pain
Still by our side thou stood'st, and gav'st us hope again!

69

Thou quell'dst the beating heart, and from the Tear
Of Grief didst kiss all bitterness away,
And as the Joys of Earth grew dull and sere,
And palled upon us with each added day,
Lost, irrecoverably lost for aye
And wither'd, like a flower without seed,
In utter Barrenness: thou still didst stay,
And calmer pleasures in their stead didst breed,
Joys which Earth touches not, and Heaven itself must need!

420

70

They never worshipped thee aright who say
That thy rewards are either small or slow;
The Fame which passes, like a Breath, away,
Which to mans's fickle Mouth its source doth owe,
This, this is small indeed! but who, oh who
That felt thee ever toiled for this alone?
Who while the Angel gathered on his brow,
And wings themselves unfolded, e'er stoop'd down
From thy calm Ether, or a Thought so low would own?

Here is an Allusion to M. Angelo's calling the Church of Santa Maria Novella in Florence, his Spouse. perhaps he did so merely on account of what he deemed its great Beauty: perhaps he may have felt something of what I have here attempted feebly to express: the Tearning after something unpossessed and unpossessable, which is to Genius at once the inspiring Wine in Life's Cup, and the bitter Dregs at its Bottom.

Correggio was paid a sum of 60 Goldcrowns for a Picture, but all in Copperpieces: in carrying it home he overheated himself, and taking a Colddrink, brought on a fever of which he died.

Dante is mentioned in an old Italian chronicle as «Dantem quemdam.»