 | Sicut Patribus and other verse |  |
65
THE ARTIST'S LAST PICTURE
Upon the painter's easel stands
The latest picture from his hands.
The canvas shows a sunset glow
Reflected in the lake below,
While mountains farther from the sight
Have caught the day's departing light,
And autumn's tints upon the leaves
Are paled by these the sunset weaves.
The latest picture from his hands.
The canvas shows a sunset glow
Reflected in the lake below,
While mountains farther from the sight
Have caught the day's departing light,
And autumn's tints upon the leaves
Are paled by these the sunset weaves.
Oh, nevermore that rosy sky
Will darken as the moments fly;
Or colour fade from off the lake,
Or mount a duller tint will take.
The glories of the lingering day
Are on that canvas fixed for aye!
Will darken as the moments fly;
Or colour fade from off the lake,
Or mount a duller tint will take.
The glories of the lingering day
Are on that canvas fixed for aye!
The hand that laid those colours fair,
The brain that schemed to set them there,
Have no more work, meseems, to do,
For both are still; the palette, too,
Hangs idly from its peg; and o'er
The box of pigments on the floor
The spider throws her web. The sun
That glittered while the work was done,
Has set in night for him who made
This canvas fair with light and shade;
For ere these glowing hues were dry
He turned him from his task to die.
The brain that schemed to set them there,
Have no more work, meseems, to do,
For both are still; the palette, too,
Hangs idly from its peg; and o'er
The box of pigments on the floor
The spider throws her web. The sun
That glittered while the work was done,
Has set in night for him who made
This canvas fair with light and shade;
66
He turned him from his task to die.
Ah! not in night his day declined;
Not thus the spirit saith. The mind
That thought, the brain that willed,
Are with diviner cunning skilled,
And somewhere out of earthly sight
The artist is, and morning light
Illumes his canvas: through his soul
The harmonies of heaven roll,
And mortal sunsets to him seem
But as some faintly-outlined dream
Recalled in brightest mid-day gleam.
Not thus the spirit saith. The mind
That thought, the brain that willed,
Are with diviner cunning skilled,
And somewhere out of earthly sight
The artist is, and morning light
Illumes his canvas: through his soul
The harmonies of heaven roll,
And mortal sunsets to him seem
But as some faintly-outlined dream
Recalled in brightest mid-day gleam.
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