The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth ::

His dwelling is a palace of the arts;
And there, surrounded by the works of those
With whom his soul has held communion,
The silvery twilight of a hundred years
Descends upon him.

We were three together,
Talking away an afternoon of spring.
The sun was shining in the public park,
And threw the shadows of the window frames
On the drawn blinds. The mellow light, diffused,
Fell sweetly on Velasquez, and a glow
Bathed Rubens and the hues of Veronese.
There was no vulgar newness in the room,
Nor gaudiness—the gilding dim with years,
The furniture well worn by many guests—
All things subdued into a calm repose,
And harmonised by long companionship.

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The ornaments so delicately wrought
About the sideboard, and the wooden plinth
Which reared a marble bust against the light,
Were carved by Chantrey when a working man.
The sculptor was presented to our friend
In the full bloom of knighthood and success—
By him, of course, received with courtesy;
When great Sir Francis, having made his bow,
Remarked, “I am not wholly strange to you—
You were an early patron, sir, of mine;
For when my purse was scantily supplied
By the small wages that a journeyman
Could then obtain by carving, your designs
Provided labour for the very hand
Which you have grasped so kindly—there they are,
The records of your patronage.” Our friend,
Who valued them before as furniture
Done by some nameless but accomplished workman,
Esteems them now as trophies nobly won
In his first field of labour by a youth
Whose after conquests consecrated these.

Upon the sideboard stood a bust of Pope,
Modelled from life. The features, lank and old,
But full of thought, expressed a state of mind
Whose peace is bought by conquest. On the wall
A bracket bore another work in clay,
Done by the hand of Michael Angelo.

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But even these had lost their interest:
For near them sat a grey old gentleman,
Gazing upon a picture which he praised
So warmly, that the painter (who sat by)
Soon changed the conversation. Then he spoke
Of other works, and asked “if I had been
Through all the house?” And truly scarce an inch
Of that rich mansion had I not explored,
From ground to roof one treasury of art,
Of pictures, books, and old engraven gems,
Busts, vases, and antiquities of price.
What elegance could be beyond his reach,
Whose very cornices and cabinets,
Fender and fire-irons, sideboard, chimneypiece,
Were painted or designed by men of note?
I thought this poet's lodging in the world
Exceeds my modest library, as mine
Does Burns's “auld clay biggin;” but the soul
Gains little from the luxuries of wealth;
And, after all, the wild and weedy banks
Of my own stream are worth perhaps to me
The galleries of Europe. Though I love
Art with a true and unaffected passion,
I do not envy him of whom I write
His precious pictures, but the groups of friends
Made happy by his kindness, who enjoyed
His pleasant breakfasts thirty years ago—
Byron, and Scott, and Turner, merry Hook,

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Jolly Sir Francis, lively little Moore,
And all the rest.

They die off one by one:
But he, the last of those connecting links
Which bind the generations of mankind
In one long chain of friendship, still survives;
And in the pressure of his gentle hand
I gained with many great men in their graves
A personal acquaintance, or at least
The introduction of a common friend.
So am I linked more closely with the past—
Myself a link between the past and future,
A new name on a pedigree of souls,
Whose friendship is paternal in its kind—
That of the old and young. This lineage
Of mere acquaintance has a strong effect
On youthful hearts. Connexion with the great,
Either by blood or intellect, inspires
A sense of duty—duty to perform
All that the world expects from us, and more.

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