The Nemesis of Art
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(Written after reading The Tinted Venus, by Mr. Anstey.)
I
Alas! that thou art dear, and not so dear,
As faces fading from the painted wall,
The queens of ages immemorial,
Helen, and grace of golden Guinevere!
Alas! thy kisses are not worth a tear,
One single tear of all the tears that fall
For memory of loves gone out of call,
And these old voices that we shall not hear.
Alas! that thou art fair, and not so fair,
As ladies Lionardo loved to paint,
Set in a frame of curled and golden hair,
Saintlike; with smiles that are not of a saint,
Glad with inexplicable mirth, or faint
With extreme languor and supreme despair.
II
We love like him who gave, long time ago,
To Venus' marble hand his wedding ring;
No more his love's embrace might round him cling,
Nor heart with heart responsive ebb and flow;
Only the goddess-ghost would come and go,
To fan him with the breath of her white wing,
And dull the fever, and assuage the sting,
And comfort him a little in his woe.
And we, like him, have given our hearts away
To beauty that was never clad in clay,
That puts all mortal loveliness to scorn;
A pale, a bitter, and a jealous queen,
With her undying beauty set between
Our loves and us, to make us all forlorn.
