 | Madrigals, songs and sonnets |  |
45
A MADONNA OF 1310.
She is stiff and thin, but the eyes at least
Shine with an earnest love and true;
Though the brows and nose, it must be confess'd,
Are formal and hard; while the sweet mouth too
Stiffens with gravity, where should float
A smile to take hearts unaware;
Yet I can fancy a carolling note
Making those white lips rosy and fair!
Shine with an earnest love and true;
Though the brows and nose, it must be confess'd,
Are formal and hard; while the sweet mouth too
Stiffens with gravity, where should float
A smile to take hearts unaware;
Yet I can fancy a carolling note
Making those white lips rosy and fair!
Was not this lady, with great gold crown,
And drapery heavy with gems, and straight,
Whose massive aureole presses down
Her lank hair like a metal plate,—
Some sweet Italian girl, whose eye,
While she sang right blithely down the street,
Flash'd up at Giotto suddenly,
As she tripp'd away on her light hind's feet?
And drapery heavy with gems, and straight,
Whose massive aureole presses down
Her lank hair like a metal plate,—
Some sweet Italian girl, whose eye,
While she sang right blithely down the street,
Flash'd up at Giotto suddenly,
As she tripp'd away on her light hind's feet?
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May we not think, as I love to dream,
That the painter,—tir'd with the weary work
Of making the saints and angels seem
(Though a dim despair in his heart would lurk)
At least a little like flesh and blood,—
Looking away in vague desire,
Suddenly caught, from where he stood,
That face, and his artist soul flash'd fire,
That the painter,—tir'd with the weary work
Of making the saints and angels seem
(Though a dim despair in his heart would lurk)
At least a little like flesh and blood,—
Looking away in vague desire,
Suddenly caught, from where he stood,
That face, and his artist soul flash'd fire,
And yearn'd, with love unsatisfied,
To frame in colour that lovely face,
And its phantom, ever by his side,
Look'd up to him with an aëry grace;
Though, for one moment, and never again,
Her soul had pierc'd his through and through,
Those eyes return'd with a weary pain,
There was flame to scorch in their pure bright blue.
To frame in colour that lovely face,
And its phantom, ever by his side,
Look'd up to him with an aëry grace;
Though, for one moment, and never again,
Her soul had pierc'd his through and through,
Those eyes return'd with a weary pain,
There was flame to scorch in their pure bright blue.
Till at last in anger he seiz'd the brush,
And work'd away with his own firm hand,
While this passion made the life-blood rush
Back to his heart, and half-unmann'd
His stalwart arm;—but the phantom-eyes
Kept him alert, and the picture grew
Under his hand, till with sad surprise
He paus'd, and nothing was left to do.
And work'd away with his own firm hand,
While this passion made the life-blood rush
Back to his heart, and half-unmann'd
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Kept him alert, and the picture grew
Under his hand, till with sad surprise
He paus'd, and nothing was left to do.
Then, as he laid the colours by,
In came a scholar-friend, no doubt,
And started and flush'd delightedly,
And hail'd this triumph of Art with a shout.
Florence and all her great and wise
Buzz'd and flutter'd around and prais'd.
Giotto the while with troubled eyes
Ruefully over his picture gaz'd;
In came a scholar-friend, no doubt,
And started and flush'd delightedly,
And hail'd this triumph of Art with a shout.
Florence and all her great and wise
Buzz'd and flutter'd around and prais'd.
Giotto the while with troubled eyes
Ruefully over his picture gaz'd;
Nothing replied, and let them admire:—
“The finest painting the world has seen!
Our Cimabue could never aspire
To this our Giotto's golden mean,
So he died, as was best!” But he silently sigh'd,
And thought of the sun-bright face, and knew,
When Man his loftiest art has tried,
He but learns how much there is left to do!
“The finest painting the world has seen!
Our Cimabue could never aspire
To this our Giotto's golden mean,
So he died, as was best!” But he silently sigh'd,
And thought of the sun-bright face, and knew,
When Man his loftiest art has tried,
He but learns how much there is left to do!
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