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87
THE SONG OF THE PLASTER CAST.
In the following poem I have attempted to tell the story of a Greek statue; not of this or of that individual copy of it,—for of nearly every great antique, antiquity alone has given us four or five copies, which in modern times have been reproduced indefinitely in marble or plaster,—but of that which constitutes the identity of the statue—which makes us say, in the presence of a plaster cast, or merely of a drawing, “This is the Discobulus of Myron,” “This is the Faun of Praxiteles,”—in short, of the form, of the conception which arose in the mind of the sculptor, and which he, first, embodied, but which may be indefinitely repeated — the form which corresponds in the statue to that purely intellectual identity that makes the Iliad the Iliad, Paradise Lost Paradise Lost, in whichever of a hundred different editions it may be seen; as much in the half-crown copy which we buy to-dya, as in the earliest manuscript existing. This abstract form, and not its individual embodiment in stone or metal, is the statue; and my object has been to trace the many changes of substance through which the form of a renowned Greek Venus has been handed down to us in all its identity.
I am but an antique Form,
By Time's ever-raging Storm
Ever spared.
Even in this Plaster Cast,
Lives my beauty of the Past
Unimpaired.
For of old I was created
In an image all divine:
Aphrodité, newly risen
From the Ocean's bitter brine.
By Time's ever-raging Storm
Ever spared.
Even in this Plaster Cast,
Lives my beauty of the Past
Unimpaired.
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In an image all divine:
Aphrodité, newly risen
From the Ocean's bitter brine.
I have passed from clay to marble,
And from marble into bronze,
And to marble then reverted;
For my antique beauty dons
Now one substance, now the other;
And in each I have asserted
My identity to men.
Clay and bronze and marble perished,
But the statue did not die,
For its very form am I.
What the Sculptor's genius cherished,
What the Sculptor's genius gives,
That was saved, and in me lives.
And from marble into bronze,
And to marble then reverted;
For my antique beauty dons
Now one substance, now the other;
And in each I have asserted
My identity to men.
Clay and bronze and marble perished,
But the statue did not die,
For its very form am I.
What the Sculptor's genius cherished,
What the Sculptor's genius gives,
That was saved, and in me lives.
Twice a thousand years have rolled
Slowly, sadly o'er my head,
And the world has long grown old,
And the tongues I heard are dead,
Since the finger of the Greek
Made the dimple in my cheek.
Nations, creeds, and arts and glories
Came, and lived, and passed away;
But the dimple still endureth,
As upon my earliest day.
Dost thou ask me for the secret
Of my endless youth and fame?
I will tell thee how, unaltered,
Through the centuries I came.
Slowly, sadly o'er my head,
And the world has long grown old,
And the tongues I heard are dead,
Since the finger of the Greek
Made the dimple in my cheek.
Nations, creeds, and arts and glories
Came, and lived, and passed away;
But the dimple still endureth,
As upon my earliest day.
Dost thou ask me for the secret
Of my endless youth and fame?
I will tell thee how, unaltered,
Through the centuries I came.
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Greece alone could make me, Greece
In an age of strength and peace,
After Salamis was won;
When beneath his tempered sun,
Man, secure from every storm,
In the beauty of the form
Found his best and highest pleasure;
And the secret of all measure
He possessed;
When in marble he expressed
All his fancy's fair creations;
Gods of beauty, Gods of gladness,
Who, in human semblance dressed,
Ruled a world too young for sadness;
Or the motley brood of Pan,
Who, through wood and field and meadow,
In perennial riot ran.
In an age of strength and peace,
After Salamis was won;
When beneath his tempered sun,
Man, secure from every storm,
In the beauty of the form
Found his best and highest pleasure;
And the secret of all measure
He possessed;
When in marble he expressed
All his fancy's fair creations;
Gods of beauty, Gods of gladness,
Who, in human semblance dressed,
Ruled a world too young for sadness;
Or the motley brood of Pan,
Who, through wood and field and meadow,
In perennial riot ran.
Round the temple fair and stately,
On whose pediment I stood,
Moved a life
With beauty rife,
And rife with good.
Slowly wound the long procession
Through the temple-bordered street,
With its tall Corinthian columns
Which extended at my feet;
And a look the sun-burnt maidens
Often upwards to me cast,
As they passed,
With their load of fruits and flowers;
And the stalwart youths who followed,
In an endless cavalcade,
On whose pediment I stood,
Moved a life
With beauty rife,
And rife with good.
Slowly wound the long procession
Through the temple-bordered street,
With its tall Corinthian columns
Which extended at my feet;
And a look the sun-burnt maidens
Often upwards to me cast,
As they passed,
With their load of fruits and flowers;
And the stalwart youths who followed,
In an endless cavalcade,
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On their small and prancing horses,
All in colours bright arrayed;
And the many-voiced echoes
Of the games fell on my ear,
And the shouting of the crowd,
In its exultation loud,
To this day I seem to hear.
For the marble Gods looked on,
While the Olympic race was won;
While the noblest youths contended,
Strong of heart and lithe of limb;
And the loud triumphal hymn,
Hailed the victor, as he wended,
In his strength and beauty splendid,
With the palm to place his name
On the sacred roll of Fame,
Which all time should fail to dim.
All in colours bright arrayed;
And the many-voiced echoes
Of the games fell on my ear,
And the shouting of the crowd,
In its exultation loud,
To this day I seem to hear.
For the marble Gods looked on,
While the Olympic race was won;
While the noblest youths contended,
Strong of heart and lithe of limb;
And the loud triumphal hymn,
Hailed the victor, as he wended,
In his strength and beauty splendid,
With the palm to place his name
On the sacred roll of Fame,
Which all time should fail to dim.
But that life within my sight,
Grew less strong and grew less bright,
And the art which at my birth
Reached its zenith upon earth,
Slowly, slowly, slowly waned;
Shining with a fading splendour,
Growing softer and more tender,
Till at length,
Nought of greatness or of strength
There remained.
Grew less strong and grew less bright,
And the art which at my birth
Reached its zenith upon earth,
Slowly, slowly, slowly waned;
Shining with a fading splendour,
Growing softer and more tender,
Till at length,
Nought of greatness or of strength
There remained.
For it is decreed in Heaven,
That on Earth,
Seed of Death to all be given
At its birth.
All that groweth, all that greeneth,
Must decay.
Every star must at its zenith
Wane away.
Every fountain's rising column
Forms a curve;
All things this commandment solemn
Must observe.
Nought may at its zenith linger,
But must move;
Fate with its resistless Finger
Gives the shove.
Every art and every greatness
Spends its force,
And in earliness or lateness
Takes this course.
That on Earth,
Seed of Death to all be given
At its birth.
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Must decay.
Every star must at its zenith
Wane away.
Every fountain's rising column
Forms a curve;
All things this commandment solemn
Must observe.
Nought may at its zenith linger,
But must move;
Fate with its resistless Finger
Gives the shove.
Every art and every greatness
Spends its force,
And in earliness or lateness
Takes this course.
Not alone the chisel then
Was blunted in the hands of men,
As the sense of art decayed;
But the keen and shining blade,
Wrought by Freedom for the Greek,
Grew too quickly blunt and dim;
And the spirit and the limb
Both were weak.
Was blunted in the hands of men,
As the sense of art decayed;
But the keen and shining blade,
Wrought by Freedom for the Greek,
Grew too quickly blunt and dim;
And the spirit and the limb
Both were weak.
Then the fair Hellenic islands
First the heavy thraldom knew
Of the iron-sided masters
Of a world that ever grew;
And the accents unfamiliar
Of the terser Roman tongue
Sounded on the shores, where Pindar,
The immortal, once had sung.
First the heavy thraldom knew
Of the iron-sided masters
Of a world that ever grew;
And the accents unfamiliar
Of the terser Roman tongue
Sounded on the shores, where Pindar,
The immortal, once had sung.
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On the noblest works of beauty,
In the unresisting land,
On the statues that were fairest,
Fell the robbing Roman hand.
And the hard rapacious Prætors
Of the ever greedy Rome,
Dragged a marble people captive
From its beauteous island home.
In the unresisting land,
On the statues that were fairest,
Fell the robbing Roman hand.
And the hard rapacious Prætors
Of the ever greedy Rome,
Dragged a marble people captive
From its beauteous island home.
Thus I left the olive hills,
And the myrtle and the bay,
And the clear and rapid rills,
Whose unceasing murmur fills
Every valley on the way,
From the centre to the strand,
Of the little Attic land
Of my birth.
And the myrtle and the bay,
And the clear and rapid rills,
Whose unceasing murmur fills
Every valley on the way,
From the centre to the strand,
Of the little Attic land
Of my birth.
And the temple-crownéd headlands,
Stretching in a silvery sea,
Warm and calm;
And the rock-begirded islands,
Whence in noon's long dreamy hours,
Comes the scent of many flowers,
Hidden in the woods of palm.
Stretching in a silvery sea,
Warm and calm;
And the rock-begirded islands,
Whence in noon's long dreamy hours,
Comes the scent of many flowers,
Hidden in the woods of palm.
Through the crowded Roman streets
I was dragged;
And the soldier people bragged
Of their distant martial feats,
And the trophies they had got;
But they felt my beauty not.
I was dragged;
And the soldier people bragged
Of their distant martial feats,
And the trophies they had got;
But they felt my beauty not.
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And I passed from hand to hand,
As the tardy years went by,
In the houses of the great;
And my masters made me stand,
And look down upon their state
From my pedestal on high;
Till at last, placed and displaced,
Nero's golden house I graced;
Where I saw, amid the din
Of the orgie, all the sin
Of the worlds that slowly rot;
But my soul was sullied not.
As the tardy years went by,
In the houses of the great;
And my masters made me stand,
And look down upon their state
From my pedestal on high;
Till at last, placed and displaced,
Nero's golden house I graced;
Where I saw, amid the din
Of the orgie, all the sin
Of the worlds that slowly rot;
But my soul was sullied not.
Then I left the home of Cæsar
For the round gigantic Mole,
Tomb of Hadrian eternal,
And watched the yellow Tiber roll,
E'en as rolled the flood of Ages,
Towards a distant sea unknown;
Bearing creeds and arts and nations,
Leaving me behind alone.
From the shore of Time I watched them
Pass unconscious on their way,
While my brow remained unfurrowed,
Fair as on my native day.
For the beauty of the statue,
And the beauty of the bust,
Shall endure in youth untarnished,
Till they crumble into dust.
For the round gigantic Mole,
Tomb of Hadrian eternal,
And watched the yellow Tiber roll,
E'en as rolled the flood of Ages,
Towards a distant sea unknown;
Bearing creeds and arts and nations,
Leaving me behind alone.
From the shore of Time I watched them
Pass unconscious on their way,
While my brow remained unfurrowed,
Fair as on my native day.
For the beauty of the statue,
And the beauty of the bust,
Shall endure in youth untarnished,
Till they crumble into dust.
There I stood until the day
When the giant Mole, transformed
To a fortress stern and grey,
By the northern hosts was stormed.
Underneath, and far and wide,
Surged the fierce barbarian tide,
With a loud and angry roar,
Wave on wave against us bore,
And upward dashed,
While the ram resistless crashed,
And a thousand arrows rained
On to statues, on to men,
And the stainless marble then
Deep was stained.
In their ugly pools of red
Lay the dying and the dead,
At my feet.
From their high, time-honoured seat,
Statues, wonders of the world,
Headlong from the walls were hurled,
Through the missile-blackened air,
In the madness of despair.
And the flames of war rose high,
And a lurid radiance now,
Like a deeper sunset's glow,
Filled the sky.
When the giant Mole, transformed
To a fortress stern and grey,
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Underneath, and far and wide,
Surged the fierce barbarian tide,
With a loud and angry roar,
Wave on wave against us bore,
And upward dashed,
While the ram resistless crashed,
And a thousand arrows rained
On to statues, on to men,
And the stainless marble then
Deep was stained.
In their ugly pools of red
Lay the dying and the dead,
At my feet.
From their high, time-honoured seat,
Statues, wonders of the world,
Headlong from the walls were hurled,
Through the missile-blackened air,
In the madness of despair.
And the flames of war rose high,
And a lurid radiance now,
Like a deeper sunset's glow,
Filled the sky.
So the statue which, the earliest,
Bore my form in human sight,
Which had lived a thousand summers,
Perished in a single night.
Bore my form in human sight,
Which had lived a thousand summers,
Perished in a single night.
But I, its essence, did not perish;
'Twas the stone alone that died;
For, though men may seem to conquer,
'Tis the Gods alone decide.
'Twas the stone alone that died;
For, though men may seem to conquer,
'Tis the Gods alone decide.
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And a copy of my beauty
Stood beneath a golden dome,
In a long-deserted villa,
Of the dying, dying Rome.
Stood beneath a golden dome,
In a long-deserted villa,
Of the dying, dying Rome.
Old was the building, by patches the plaster
Fell with the frescoes each year from the walls;
Age and desertion worked faster and faster,
Now in the silent, still beautiful halls.
Only we statues, 'mid rank vegetation,
Peopled the portico, garden, and court;
Man seldom troubled the dull desolation,
Never he gave us a look or a thought.
Down from the ceilings, on floors of mosaic,
Crumbled the cornices, hiding them fast;
Till on what lingered of beauty Archaic,
Inward the roofs fell like thunder at last.
All was now shapeless; the statues, once splendid,
Lay in the heap, from their pedestals hurled;
Gently the mould, the encroacher, all ended:
That which was beauty had passed from the world.
Fell with the frescoes each year from the walls;
Age and desertion worked faster and faster,
Now in the silent, still beautiful halls.
Only we statues, 'mid rank vegetation,
Peopled the portico, garden, and court;
Man seldom troubled the dull desolation,
Never he gave us a look or a thought.
Down from the ceilings, on floors of mosaic,
Crumbled the cornices, hiding them fast;
Till on what lingered of beauty Archaic,
Inward the roofs fell like thunder at last.
All was now shapeless; the statues, once splendid,
Lay in the heap, from their pedestals hurled;
Gently the mould, the encroacher, all ended:
That which was beauty had passed from the world.
For a thousand years I lay,
Deep imbedded in the clay;
And the ground above the sleeper
Grew unnoticed ever deeper,
Day by day.
Deep imbedded in the clay;
And the ground above the sleeper
Grew unnoticed ever deeper,
Day by day.
Men and women
Overhead
Lived their little life
Of an hour,
Like the flower
And the herb.
Beauties courted and superb
Felt decay
And passed away,
Like a breath;
Knowing nothing of the beauty,
Ever radiant,
Underneath.
Overhead
Lived their little life
Of an hour,
Like the flower
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Beauties courted and superb
Felt decay
And passed away,
Like a breath;
Knowing nothing of the beauty,
Ever radiant,
Underneath.
And the change was great and solemn
Which had come upon the earth;
And the world's fair face had wrinkled,
Since the days which gave me birth.
Still the Sun's unwearied chariot
Crossed the ether as before;
But the young and radiant Phœbus
Held its golden reins no more.
Still the forest depths were shady,
Still were green the woodland lawns;
But they now no more were peopled
By the shy and happy fauns.
Still the streams and still the fountains
Murmured as they passed along;
But the Naiads now no longer
Turned their murmur into song.
In the fields there were no pipings,
For an unknown voice had said,
On the silent shores of Hellas,
Long ago, that Pan was dead.
In men's hearts there was no gladness;
Hushed was every sound of mirth.
But a litany incessant
Rose to Heaven from the Earth.
Which had come upon the earth;
And the world's fair face had wrinkled,
Since the days which gave me birth.
Still the Sun's unwearied chariot
Crossed the ether as before;
But the young and radiant Phœbus
Held its golden reins no more.
Still the forest depths were shady,
Still were green the woodland lawns;
But they now no more were peopled
By the shy and happy fauns.
Still the streams and still the fountains
Murmured as they passed along;
But the Naiads now no longer
Turned their murmur into song.
In the fields there were no pipings,
For an unknown voice had said,
On the silent shores of Hellas,
Long ago, that Pan was dead.
In men's hearts there was no gladness;
Hushed was every sound of mirth.
But a litany incessant
Rose to Heaven from the Earth.
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From the steeples, in the twilight,
Sounded now the evening bell;
And the world, no longer youthful,
Learned the meaning of a knell.
In the cloister's gloom, unloving,
Paced the morbid monk or nun,
Who a mortal sin esteemed it,
To feel young or love the Sun.
On the dark cathedral buttress,
Imps of stone with face of ape,
Carved by an ignoble chisel,
Mocked the godlike human shape,
While I, the human shape's perfection,
In the earth lay hidden deep,
Till a nobler generation
Should awake me from my sleep.
Sounded now the evening bell;
And the world, no longer youthful,
Learned the meaning of a knell.
In the cloister's gloom, unloving,
Paced the morbid monk or nun,
Who a mortal sin esteemed it,
To feel young or love the Sun.
On the dark cathedral buttress,
Imps of stone with face of ape,
Carved by an ignoble chisel,
Mocked the godlike human shape,
While I, the human shape's perfection,
In the earth lay hidden deep,
Till a nobler generation
Should awake me from my sleep.
But the day arrived at last
When the secret of the past
Was disclosed;
And when men the Venus found
Who for ages in the ground
Had reposed.
And again, as at my birth,
To all corners of the earth,
Hurried Fame;
But it was decreed by Fate,
That she should not tell the great
Sculptor's name;
And though I the secret ken,
I reveal it not to men,
Nor may speak:
This alone I can impart,
That he reached the height of art,
And was Greek.
And a thousand reproductions
Of my beauty were sent forth,
And were scattered 'mong the nations,
East and West, and South and North.
While I stand in marble costly
In the palaces at Rome,
I am seen in humble plaster,
In the poorest artist's home.
I am not the bronze, the marble,
Nor the ivory and gold,
But the form impressed upon them,
By a mighty hand of old;
Little matters what the substance;
And my beauty of the Past,
Liveth unimpaired and splendid,
Even in a Plaster Cast.
When the secret of the past
Was disclosed;
And when men the Venus found
Who for ages in the ground
Had reposed.
And again, as at my birth,
To all corners of the earth,
Hurried Fame;
But it was decreed by Fate,
That she should not tell the great
Sculptor's name;
And though I the secret ken,
I reveal it not to men,
Nor may speak:
This alone I can impart,
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And was Greek.
And a thousand reproductions
Of my beauty were sent forth,
And were scattered 'mong the nations,
East and West, and South and North.
While I stand in marble costly
In the palaces at Rome,
I am seen in humble plaster,
In the poorest artist's home.
I am not the bronze, the marble,
Nor the ivory and gold,
But the form impressed upon them,
By a mighty hand of old;
Little matters what the substance;
And my beauty of the Past,
Liveth unimpaired and splendid,
Even in a Plaster Cast.
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