In My Lady's Praise Being Poems, Old and New: Written to the Honour of Fanny, Lady Arnold and Now Collected for her Memory: By Sir Edwin Arnold |
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 | In My Lady's Praise |  |
131
“Students' Day” in the National Gallery
(Written when she was copying the Madonna of Perugino. May 1868.)
Out of all the hundred fair Madonnas
Seen in many a rich and distant city—
Sweet Madonnas, with the mother's bosoms;
Sad Madonnas, with the eyes of anguish;
Rapt Madonnas, caught in clouds to heaven—
(Clouds of golden, glad, adoring Angels—)
She of Florence, in the chair—so perfect!
She that was the “Grand Duke's” wealth and glory,
She that makes the picture “of the Goldfinch,”
Ghirlandajo's, with the cloak and jewels,
Guido's Queen, whom men and angels worship;
Della Robbia's best; and that sweet “Perla”—
Seville's bright boast—Mary of Murillo,
(Painted—so they vow—“with milk and roses”)
Guido Reni's Quadro at Bologna,
Munich's masterpiece, grim Durer's Goddess;
Yes! and thy brave work—Beltraffio mio!—
Many as the lessons are I owe them,
Thanks and wonder; worship; grateful memories,
Oftenest I shall think of Perugino's.
Seen in many a rich and distant city—
Sweet Madonnas, with the mother's bosoms;
Sad Madonnas, with the eyes of anguish;
Rapt Madonnas, caught in clouds to heaven—
(Clouds of golden, glad, adoring Angels—)
She of Florence, in the chair—so perfect!
She that was the “Grand Duke's” wealth and glory,
She that makes the picture “of the Goldfinch,”
Ghirlandajo's, with the cloak and jewels,
Guido's Queen, whom men and angels worship;
Della Robbia's best; and that sweet “Perla”—
Seville's bright boast—Mary of Murillo,
(Painted—so they vow—“with milk and roses”)
Guido Reni's Quadro at Bologna,
Munich's masterpiece, grim Durer's Goddess;
Yes! and thy brave work—Beltraffio mio!—
132
Thanks and wonder; worship; grateful memories,
Oftenest I shall think of Perugino's.
Do you know it? Either side a triptych
Stands an armed Archangel—as to guard her—
Glorious—with great wings, and shining armour:
In the middle panel, pure and tender,
Clasping close her hands, with adoration,
(All the Mother's love—the Mortal's worship—
In their yearning, in their reverence, painted)
Gazes Mary on the Child. A seraph
Holds Him, smiling, at her knees; and, smiling,
Looks she down, with spirit humbly-happy,
Full—to heart's brim—of the Peace of Heaven.
Reverence mingles with the Mother's passion,
But no touch of sadness, or of doubting.
Far away a river runneth seaward,
(Little now—like Truth—like Truth, to widen)
Leads the light across a blue dim country,
Under peaks—by forests—to the ocean:
Soft and warm, a pearly sky broods over
Where three Winged-Ones, at the Father's footstool,
Sing the “peace and good-will” song to mortals.
Stands an armed Archangel—as to guard her—
Glorious—with great wings, and shining armour:
In the middle panel, pure and tender,
Clasping close her hands, with adoration,
(All the Mother's love—the Mortal's worship—
In their yearning, in their reverence, painted)
Gazes Mary on the Child. A seraph
Holds Him, smiling, at her knees; and, smiling,
Looks she down, with spirit humbly-happy,
Full—to heart's brim—of the Peace of Heaven.
Reverence mingles with the Mother's passion,
But no touch of sadness, or of doubting.
Far away a river runneth seaward,
(Little now—like Truth—like Truth, to widen)
Leads the light across a blue dim country,
Under peaks—by forests—to the ocean:
Soft and warm, a pearly sky broods over
Where three Winged-Ones, at the Father's footstool,
Sing the “peace and good-will” song to mortals.
133
If you ask me why that Perugino
Of the rest can never be forgotten,
Let this serve: I learned a lesson by it,
Watching one whose light and faithful fingers—
Following touch by touch her lovely labour—
Caught the Master's trick, and made him modern.
While she bent above her new Madonna,
Laid the lucid smalts, and touched the crimsons,
Swept the shadows under the gilt tresses,
Smoothed the sinless brows, and drooped the eyelids,—
What the Master did, so also doing,—
I bethought me “True and good the toil is!
Noble thus to double gifts of beauty!
Yet, alas! this ‘peace and good-will’ anthem,—
If the dear Madonna knew what ages—
Slowly following ages—would creep o'er us,
And those words be still as wind that passes,
Breathing fragrance from a land we know not,
Sighing music to a tune we catch not,
Stirring hearts, as leaves, i' the night, a little
Shake, and sleep again, and wait for sunlight,
(Sweet, glad sunlight! oh, so long a-coming!)
Would she smile so? I had painted rather—
(While she listened to those singing Angels,)
Mary, with a sword-blade in her bosom,
(Sword that was to pierce her heart, of all hearts!)
I had shown her with deep eyes of trouble,
Half afraid to credit that Evangel;
I had limned her ‘pondering all those sayings,’
All our later agonies foreseeing,
After all our years have heard ‘the tidings.’”
Of the rest can never be forgotten,
Let this serve: I learned a lesson by it,
Watching one whose light and faithful fingers—
Following touch by touch her lovely labour—
Caught the Master's trick, and made him modern.
While she bent above her new Madonna,
Laid the lucid smalts, and touched the crimsons,
Swept the shadows under the gilt tresses,
Smoothed the sinless brows, and drooped the eyelids,—
What the Master did, so also doing,—
I bethought me “True and good the toil is!
Noble thus to double gifts of beauty!
Yet, alas! this ‘peace and good-will’ anthem,—
If the dear Madonna knew what ages—
Slowly following ages—would creep o'er us,
And those words be still as wind that passes,
Breathing fragrance from a land we know not,
Sighing music to a tune we catch not,
Stirring hearts, as leaves, i' the night, a little
Shake, and sleep again, and wait for sunlight,
(Sweet, glad sunlight! oh, so long a-coming!)
Would she smile so? I had painted rather—
(While she listened to those singing Angels,)
134
(Sword that was to pierce her heart, of all hearts!)
I had shown her with deep eyes of trouble,
Half afraid to credit that Evangel;
I had limned her ‘pondering all those sayings,’
All our later agonies foreseeing,
After all our years have heard ‘the tidings.’”
But the Artist, painting bold and largely,
Washing soft and clear the broadening colours;
With a liberal brush, at skilful working,
Linking lights and shadows on the visage,
Dropped by hazard there one drop of water!
“Lo, a tear!” I thought; “that teaches Pietro!
That is wiser than the Master's wisdom!
Now the picture's meaning will be perfect!
For she could not be so calm—Christ's Mother—
Could she? even though Archangels kept her!
Could she? even though those sang in Heaven!
Knowing how her world would roll beyond them,
Twenty centuries past this sacred moment,
Out of sound of this angelic singing;
Loaded with the wrongs Christ's justice rights not,
Reddened with the blood Christ's teachings staunch not,
Reeking with the tears Christ's pity stays not:
Let the tear shine there! it suits the story!
Tear and smile go wondrous well together!
Seeing that this song was sung by Angels;
Seeing that the foolish world gainsays it.
That one lustrous drop completes the picture!
You forgot it! Peter of Perugia!”
Washing soft and clear the broadening colours;
With a liberal brush, at skilful working,
Linking lights and shadows on the visage,
Dropped by hazard there one drop of water!
“Lo, a tear!” I thought; “that teaches Pietro!
That is wiser than the Master's wisdom!
Now the picture's meaning will be perfect!
For she could not be so calm—Christ's Mother—
Could she? even though Archangels kept her!
Could she? even though those sang in Heaven!
Knowing how her world would roll beyond them,
Twenty centuries past this sacred moment,
Out of sound of this angelic singing;
Loaded with the wrongs Christ's justice rights not,
Reddened with the blood Christ's teachings staunch not,
135
Let the tear shine there! it suits the story!
Tear and smile go wondrous well together!
Seeing that this song was sung by Angels;
Seeing that the foolish world gainsays it.
That one lustrous drop completes the picture!
You forgot it! Peter of Perugia!”
Ah! I did not know an Artist's wisdom!
I had still to learn my deepest lesson:
She I watched, with better thought inspired,
Took some tender colour in her pencil,
(Faint dawn-colour,—blush of rose—I marked not!)
Touched the tear, and melted it to brightness,
Spread it in a heavenly smile all over,
Magically made it turn to service;
Till that tear, charged with its rosy tintings,
Deepened the first sweet smile, and left it lovelier,—
Like the Master's work, complete, sufficient!
I had still to learn my deepest lesson:
She I watched, with better thought inspired,
Took some tender colour in her pencil,
(Faint dawn-colour,—blush of rose—I marked not!)
Touched the tear, and melted it to brightness,
Spread it in a heavenly smile all over,
Magically made it turn to service;
Till that tear, charged with its rosy tintings,
Deepened the first sweet smile, and left it lovelier,—
Like the Master's work, complete, sufficient!
Then I thought:“Pietro's wise Madonna
Was too wise to weep at little sorrows!
Christ, and She, and Heaven, and all the angels
Last;—'tis sin, and grief, alone which passes!
Roses grow of dew, and smiles from weeping!
Sweetest smile is made of saddest tear-drop!
She hath not forgotten we shall suffer!
In her heart that sword—to the heft—is planted,
But, beyond the years, she sees Time over;
Past the Calvary she counts ‘the mansions.’
Dear Madonna!—wise to be so happy!
Should you weep, because we have not listened?
We shall listen! and His mother knows it!”
Was too wise to weep at little sorrows!
Christ, and She, and Heaven, and all the angels
Last;—'tis sin, and grief, alone which passes!
136
Sweetest smile is made of saddest tear-drop!
She hath not forgotten we shall suffer!
In her heart that sword—to the heft—is planted,
But, beyond the years, she sees Time over;
Past the Calvary she counts ‘the mansions.’
Dear Madonna!—wise to be so happy!
Should you weep, because we have not listened?
We shall listen! and His mother knows it!”
This is why—of many rare Madonnas,—
Most of all I think on Perugino's;
I who know so many more and love them!
This is why I thank my gentle artist,
She who taught me that, a student's wisdom!
Most of all I think on Perugino's;
I who know so many more and love them!
This is why I thank my gentle artist,
She who taught me that, a student's wisdom!
| In My Lady's Praise | |