The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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TURNER. |
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TURNER.
Turner had strength to bear that tempering
Which makes the broken hearts of weaker men
Its daily food, and lives on shattered hopes.
He still pursued his journey step by step—
First modestly attired in quiet grey,
As well became sincere humility;
Then with a plume of colour he adorned
His simple raiment, and so walked a while;
Until at last, like his belovèd Sun,
He set in forms of strangest phantasy,
Coloured with gold and scarlet, and the lands
Of his conception grew as dim and vague
As shadows. So his mighty brain declined.
Which makes the broken hearts of weaker men
Its daily food, and lives on shattered hopes.
He still pursued his journey step by step—
First modestly attired in quiet grey,
As well became sincere humility;
Then with a plume of colour he adorned
His simple raiment, and so walked a while;
Until at last, like his belovèd Sun,
He set in forms of strangest phantasy,
Coloured with gold and scarlet, and the lands
Of his conception grew as dim and vague
As shadows. So his mighty brain declined.
Men have accused him of mean avarice,
Since, being rich, he lived in poverty;
Yet had they gone and tempted him with gold
To sell the fairest children of his hand,
He would have scorned their offers, and replied:
“These are too precious for your galleries—
They bear my spirit's image. I bequeath
Them undivided to my country's care.”
So in that gloomy mansion where he dwelt,
He kept those works around him till his death;
And so denied himself, and sacrificed
More wealth by that reserve than feebler minds
Might strive a lifetime to accumulate.
Religious men have often lived from choice
In poverty, that wealth might not distract
Their souls from contemplation. It was so
With Turner the recluse, and rightly so;
For Art is a religion, and would scorn
A soul's divided service. I respect
The painter whom no pleasures could allure
From his serene, laborious solitude;
Who gathered wealth for painters after him,
And only cared for Art and for his fame!
And if increasing riches could not change
His frugal habits into luxury,
Or hinder that devotion to his art
By which he had attained such excellence,
Does that degrade his character or not?
It well contrasts with that improvidence
Which ruins Art by making its pursuit
A path whereby the debtor may escape
By trick and speed the horrors of the jail.
Since, being rich, he lived in poverty;
199
To sell the fairest children of his hand,
He would have scorned their offers, and replied:
“These are too precious for your galleries—
They bear my spirit's image. I bequeath
Them undivided to my country's care.”
So in that gloomy mansion where he dwelt,
He kept those works around him till his death;
And so denied himself, and sacrificed
More wealth by that reserve than feebler minds
Might strive a lifetime to accumulate.
Religious men have often lived from choice
In poverty, that wealth might not distract
Their souls from contemplation. It was so
With Turner the recluse, and rightly so;
For Art is a religion, and would scorn
A soul's divided service. I respect
The painter whom no pleasures could allure
From his serene, laborious solitude;
Who gathered wealth for painters after him,
And only cared for Art and for his fame!
And if increasing riches could not change
His frugal habits into luxury,
Or hinder that devotion to his art
By which he had attained such excellence,
Does that degrade his character or not?
It well contrasts with that improvidence
Which ruins Art by making its pursuit
200
By trick and speed the horrors of the jail.
Turner bequeathed his riches unto Art,
And to extend his fame—a noble wish;
And from the grave he challenged Claude Lorraine,
And still they try their prowess side by side,
Living on canvass in strange rivalry.
But you who would be judges in this cause
Must go to Nature, the great lawgiver,
And having studied her eternal code,
Give your decision without any fear
Of prejudice or withered connoisseurs.
And to extend his fame—a noble wish;
And from the grave he challenged Claude Lorraine,
And still they try their prowess side by side,
Living on canvass in strange rivalry.
But you who would be judges in this cause
Must go to Nature, the great lawgiver,
And having studied her eternal code,
Give your decision without any fear
Of prejudice or withered connoisseurs.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |