 | Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell |  |
AN ARTIST.
IN A SCULPTOR'S STUDIO.
Artist.
Friend, there you have my very heart,
Embodied thought of inmost soul:
That marble is of life a part,
Of many a hope the yearned-for goal.
Oh, bitter sweet,—oh, sweet the hours
I've spent upon it night and day!
Summers have come with breath of flowers,
And waned and withered, passed away,
Followed by winters cold and keen,—
They found me in my studio still,
And saw me o'er the marble lean
Until the deep and inward thought
Took form according to my will;
Then as from hour to hour I wrought,
The stone the mind's reflection caught.
Embodied thought of inmost soul:
That marble is of life a part,
Of many a hope the yearned-for goal.
Oh, bitter sweet,—oh, sweet the hours
I've spent upon it night and day!
Summers have come with breath of flowers,
And waned and withered, passed away,
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They found me in my studio still,
And saw me o'er the marble lean
Until the deep and inward thought
Took form according to my will;
Then as from hour to hour I wrought,
The stone the mind's reflection caught.
The mother, when she clasps her child,
Forgets her travail and her pain,
In that sweet infant undefiled;
Would go through all, and more again,
Such treasure to her heart to strain.
It was her thought for many an hour,
Her dream by night, her hope for days;
And now the bud has bloomed to flower,
Her heart o'erruns with bliss and praise.
And still her wonder grows and grows
To see, what but in dreams she saw,
Laid on her breast, a budding rose,
And feel it, with a kind of awe,
From her warm bosom nurture draw.
Yes,—there it lies,—this makes her bliss,—
The hope of brooding months is here;
And now she gives it kiss on kiss,
To take from rapture all its fear.
Forgets her travail and her pain,
In that sweet infant undefiled;
Would go through all, and more again,
Such treasure to her heart to strain.
It was her thought for many an hour,
Her dream by night, her hope for days;
And now the bud has bloomed to flower,
Her heart o'erruns with bliss and praise.
And still her wonder grows and grows
To see, what but in dreams she saw,
Laid on her breast, a budding rose,
And feel it, with a kind of awe,
From her warm bosom nurture draw.
Yes,—there it lies,—this makes her bliss,—
The hope of brooding months is here;
And now she gives it kiss on kiss,
To take from rapture all its fear.
My sculptured thought—behold it there!
Of night the dream,—of day the prayer—
To me,—oh, more than I can say;
What think'st thou of it, Friend, I pray?
Of night the dream,—of day the prayer—
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What think'st thou of it, Friend, I pray?
Friend.
A noble work, perfect in form:
Here one may see a poet's heart.
With life's great joy it seemeth warm,
And almost breathes through lips that part.
It fully satisfies the mind:
'Twere less than praise to call it good,—
Graceful the pose, and well design'd,
'Twas wrought in your most happy mood.
Artist.
Memory is there, dear Friend, and love;
They sat beside me while I wrought,
And each their tender fancies wove
Until its life the marble caught.
They sat beside me while I wrought,
And each their tender fancies wove
Until its life the marble caught.
You know the face,—my love, my life,—
Oh, she was all the world to me,—
She made my world,—had been my wife,
But Death said that was not to be.
My friends say, “Let the public see,
And break the silence round with praise.
Let recognition come to me
Bright as the light of summer days,
Which fills with warmth, expands the heart,
And beautifies the earth and sky
With glory from themselves apart,
As bathed within its gleams they lie.”
But what to me is empty fame?
I would remain obscure, unknown:
It were no joy to have my name
Through every land and island blown.
Oh, she was all the world to me,—
She made my world,—had been my wife,
But Death said that was not to be.
My friends say, “Let the public see,
And break the silence round with praise.
Let recognition come to me
Bright as the light of summer days,
Which fills with warmth, expands the heart,
And beautifies the earth and sky
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As bathed within its gleams they lie.”
But what to me is empty fame?
I would remain obscure, unknown:
It were no joy to have my name
Through every land and island blown.
Friend.
I am no artist, as you know,
But could my hand work out as thine,
And carve in stainless marble so,—
Could I flash out some thought divine,
And make the senseless canvas glow,
Compelling men to hold my name
In honour,—could my perfect art
Win reverence, and love, and fame,
Accorded freely from the heart,
No sweetness could be half so dear.
Then, as I passed through crowded street
All watching till I drew anear,
Regardless of the cold or heat,
If they might only catch my eye,—
Would jewelled caps in honour raise,
As with a smile I passed them by,—
Glad just to bask within its rays,—
Oh, life thus rich in all men's love!
Oh, endless life! For I should live
In all the ages as they move.
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For me, for me, would be no death;
I should go down to future days,
Immortal ever in men's breath,
Whose love should crown my head with bays.
Pilgrims from countries far and near
Would come as if to holy shrine
To see my art-work, which the ear
Had heard of as almost divine.
Not dearer Raphael's Babe would be,
His dove-eyed Virgin, sweet and mild,
Or Fra Beato's purity,
His Holy Family and Child.
Artist.
Enough! Let others see my art
Forsooth, that they may praise its worth?
I'd sooner shed, Friend, from my heart
Its blood in drops to dye the earth.
What! send it to some gallery—hall?
No! not to get me wealth or name:
That were indeed for me a fall.
I care not, I, for empty fame,
For any critic's praise or gall;
Better the rack than stand and hear
Men's idle talk,—“This limb lacks verve,
Too full the lip, too small the ear,
These lines need beauty in the curve,
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'Twould drive me mad. Fame! what is fame?
An empty bubble on the stream,
The brilliant flashes of a flame,
The passing rapture of a dream.
Friend.
Well, then, we'll speak no more of fame,—
This rather,—what it were to reach
Men's hearts and kindle them to flame;
Through Nature's symbols truth to teach,
And through her sensuous forms reveal
The eternal beauty, uncreate,
That all who see, with hearts elate,
May learn its loveliness to feel,
And bless the Art that showed what lies
'Neath Nature and her shapes divine,
Interpreting to th' unveiled eyes
The inner meaning through the sign.
Does not this touch you? Would that I
Could outward throw my inmost soul!
'Twould be a joy, an ecstasy,
Bought cheap by travail, pain, and dole.
The artist is a prophet, too;
His forms symbolic lead to God;
For him the rain, the sun, the dew,
The little flower upon the sod,
Are full of meanings, meant to raise
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And give it voice to sing His praise.
Artist.
Enough! enough! I once thought so;
That work without men's sweet applause
Was like the flower hid 'neath the snow;
Thought I could teach the world true laws,
And show through symbols clearly seen
A beauty which is out of sight;
How all things that have ever been
Have archetypes within God's light.
—That's o'er. Art is enough, sublime,
For all who love it. I would hold
My vision clear to see past time;
Where Art is true, it smites self dead;
Art only is the end of Art.
To outward form the thought to wed,
This satisfies at least my heart.
I am resolved no work of mine
Before the public eye shall go;
Here will I build for it a shrine,
And round it loving words shall flow.
For the world's praise I do not sigh,
Nor care I if the public hiss:
For I must work, or else I die;
My whole life burns to some such bliss
Of rhythmic thought as this! as this!
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And planets glowed from east to west,
And star-fires shone around His throne,
Felt a new joy thrill through His breast
Because His thoughts in form were drest.
Creation in itself was bliss:
To see life streaming at His will,
Upheaving hills the heavens kiss,
And throbbing worlds the spaces fill.
Had never been an eye to see,
Or voice its wonder to upraise,
Not the less happy, Friend, were He;
He needed not His creatures' praise.
Enough for me that I have wrought,—
I am content. I want no more.
Conception has expression caught.—
Nay, not a word, Friend, I implore;
It shall not pass my studio door.
Friend.
Hold! hold! my friend. Was God content
To give expression to His powers,
With stars to stud the firmament,
To carpet dewy fields with flowers,
Sow seas with pearls, and light the mine
With gems, yet care not any eye should see
The evidence of love divine
In hill and dale, and lawn and lea?
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Intelligent to grasp the skill
Which met their eye on every hand
With charm of beauty at His will;
And man was formed to see, adore
God in His work. Does it not prove
God had a pleasure all the more
When eyes beheld His works of love?
Was He content to dwell alone
In vacant space or solitude,—
His vast creative power unknown,
What grace was His,—how great, how good?
Is not your argument at fault?
We crave for sympathy. Is't so?
Artist.
You move me, Friend, indeed you do;
I feel at length inclined to yield;
Ah! sweet is recognition due:
You've almost driven me from the field.
Friend.
Nay, altogether. Come, confess
There is a glory in the gift
Our thoughts in outward forms to dress,
And thus through beauty to uplift
The man and purify the soul;
By brush, by chisel, or by word
To touch the mind with joy or dole,
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To call the dead past from its tomb,
Where so long buried it has lain;
To re-illume its dusky gloom,
And bid it live and breathe again;
To tell the wonders that shall be
When all the future is unrolled,
And, prophet-like, to let men see
The glories of the age of gold;
To grapple with some problem deep,
And make its hidden meanings plain;
The universe to search and sweep,
And o'er its occult secrets reign;
To touch all themes, and by them all
To make men nobler through our art,
Ah, this would I a triumph call;
And surely this must move your heart.
'Twere pain,—yea, surely, it were pain
To speak great truths, yet have no ear
Bent to our high poetic strain;
To sing, and yet with none to hear;
Like unto some poor widow'd bird,
That through the day and all day long,
When leaves by summer winds are stirr'd,
Pipes its one sweet neglected song,
No mate to answer to the note
Which, rising from its swelling heart,
Distends its small melodious throat,
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Artist.
We crave for sympathy. Is't so?
Suffices none for self? I had thought
Artist and Poet did. But no,
My heart owns all that thou hast taught,—
I see it now:—yes, 'tis delight
To shape what others fain would say,
To bring th' ideal into sight
From out the darkness where it lay,
And win from them a debt of love.
Yes, this is joy. I did but try
To think that I was raised above
The need for human sympathy,—
That art was its own perfect end,
Fulfilled itself by its own strength.
Alas! the thought was vain, dear Friend.
This truth I have found out at length;
I too would live from age to age
In hearts of men, and have a name
Held dear by all—simple and sage,—
Because I taught them—this my fame,—
Great truths made visible to the eye,
Which shall be theirs till time shall end;
And so my mem'ry shall not die,
But with their happiest thoughts shall blend.
Yet that dear statue standing there,
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My model, sweet, and oh, so fair,
Torn from my arms by cruel Death,
That shall not meet the public gaze.
I'll build it, as I said, a shrine!
Never shall it appeal for praise:
It shall be mine and only mine!
But other stone I'll shape, and then
I may let that be seen of men.
But this—I've vowed it once before,
Shall never pass my studio door.
| Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell | |