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3
A DWARF.
In the strong daylight of reality,
I came upon a being who belonged
Not to the present, but the distant past;
A thing mis-issued from the womb of Time,
Which called the mind away from present sights,
And seemed to give the measure of an age.
I saw him at Verona in the street;
And with that empty street, in which the sun
Poured floods of light upon the heated stones,
He seemed as out of keeping as a bat.
He was a cripple and a dwarf, of face
Close-shaven, warped, and pleasureless, who stood
Upon his crutches, in the dreary garb
Of a medieval almshouse, eyeing us.
He might have been an imp-like ornament,
Detached from some cathedral buttress black,
And vivified by now forgotten spells;
The incarnate spirit of the Ages Dark,
Thrown on our path to make us love these days.
I came upon a being who belonged
Not to the present, but the distant past;
A thing mis-issued from the womb of Time,
Which called the mind away from present sights,
And seemed to give the measure of an age.
I saw him at Verona in the street;
And with that empty street, in which the sun
Poured floods of light upon the heated stones,
He seemed as out of keeping as a bat.
He was a cripple and a dwarf, of face
Close-shaven, warped, and pleasureless, who stood
Upon his crutches, in the dreary garb
Of a medieval almshouse, eyeing us.
He might have been an imp-like ornament,
Detached from some cathedral buttress black,
And vivified by now forgotten spells;
The incarnate spirit of the Ages Dark,
Thrown on our path to make us love these days.
I let my thoughts revert to those black times,
When prowled the monk, the leper, and the witch
Amid the rubbish of a nobler world;
When blunted was the mind by ignorance
And dull despair, and much the body, too,
Was stunted, and misshapen, and debased
By centuries of famine, when mankind
Were but a herd of mean and trembling slaves,
Beneath the lash of heaven, and their voice
A litany unceasing. Then the Dwarf
Became the sculptor's model; and the more
Distorted and malignant was his face,
The more he served his purpose. Everywhere
He leered from out the stonework, in the gloom
Of cloister and of church, where he sustained
The short and thick-set pillarets with pain
On his ignoble shoulders; or he peeped
With apish goblins as a water-spout,
Over the belfry's brink, or crouched high up,
And seemed to jeer beneath the Gothic eaves;
And in the twilight, struck a sickening fear
In women's hearts, and made them oft, perhaps,
Give birth unto his like. Had the pale sun
Not strength enough, in those ill-omened times,
To warm men's hearts to gladness, and a sense
Of human beauty? Did not Nature speak?
And came no voices from the distant past?
No voices came, or, if they came, were faint.
In premature decrepitude, the world
Had little memory of its golden youth,
When held in honour was the human form,
And when, in Greece, the sculptor loved to mould
The youth still sprinkled with Olympic dust;
When Phidias and Praxiteles had clothed
Immortal Gods in Man's most beauteous shape,
And shown to all the Zeus of mighty brow,
The armed and placid Pallas, or the young
Triumphant Phœbus, in his radiant strength;
And her who rose from ocean's tossing foam,
Supremely fair; or happy leaf-eared Fauns,
O'er-filled with life, and fresh from woodland glades.
Those days were dead: the Gods of Hellas slept
Within the bosom of the patient earth;
What was not dust was hidden in the dust,
And half a thousand years had still to pass
Before their waking day. And even then,
When once again they stood in Heaven's light,
In their own grand serenity, how few
Were those whose hearts could recognise their rule,
Or give the disinherited their due!
Alas, alas! for beauty's noblest world!
When prowled the monk, the leper, and the witch
4
When blunted was the mind by ignorance
And dull despair, and much the body, too,
Was stunted, and misshapen, and debased
By centuries of famine, when mankind
Were but a herd of mean and trembling slaves,
Beneath the lash of heaven, and their voice
A litany unceasing. Then the Dwarf
Became the sculptor's model; and the more
Distorted and malignant was his face,
The more he served his purpose. Everywhere
He leered from out the stonework, in the gloom
Of cloister and of church, where he sustained
The short and thick-set pillarets with pain
On his ignoble shoulders; or he peeped
With apish goblins as a water-spout,
Over the belfry's brink, or crouched high up,
And seemed to jeer beneath the Gothic eaves;
And in the twilight, struck a sickening fear
In women's hearts, and made them oft, perhaps,
Give birth unto his like. Had the pale sun
Not strength enough, in those ill-omened times,
To warm men's hearts to gladness, and a sense
Of human beauty? Did not Nature speak?
And came no voices from the distant past?
No voices came, or, if they came, were faint.
In premature decrepitude, the world
Had little memory of its golden youth,
When held in honour was the human form,
And when, in Greece, the sculptor loved to mould
The youth still sprinkled with Olympic dust;
When Phidias and Praxiteles had clothed
Immortal Gods in Man's most beauteous shape,
5
The armed and placid Pallas, or the young
Triumphant Phœbus, in his radiant strength;
And her who rose from ocean's tossing foam,
Supremely fair; or happy leaf-eared Fauns,
O'er-filled with life, and fresh from woodland glades.
Those days were dead: the Gods of Hellas slept
Within the bosom of the patient earth;
What was not dust was hidden in the dust,
And half a thousand years had still to pass
Before their waking day. And even then,
When once again they stood in Heaven's light,
In their own grand serenity, how few
Were those whose hearts could recognise their rule,
Or give the disinherited their due!
Alas, alas! for beauty's noblest world!
The Middle Ages, like a sea of lead,
Extend immense and desolate; a sea
On which the sun appears for ever set,
And through the lasting twilight we perceive
Some few wrecks of Antiquity. Look back
With me upon those times of woe, when first
The bell's dull tolling marked the close of day,
And rendered sadder nightfall's saddening hour.
The thousand woodland gods of Greece were gone;
The sunlit glades were empty, which had once
With joyous beings teemed. But in the gloom,
In damp and chilly dells of evil name,
Where clumps of henbane and of monkshood grew,
A thousand other beings dwelt instead,
Spiteful and ugly, who on toadstools sat
And waited for the passer-by to cross
His path and bode him ill. The dreaded Nix
Dwelt in the depths of sunless forest pools,
And lured the fisher, while the dwarfish Gnomes
Betrayed the miner in the caves of earth.
The world was peopled with fantastic shapes
Of ugliness and fear, which man, alas,
Had formed in his own image. Fear and Hate
And Hunger reigned. The lean and stunted serf,
Nailed to his clod of unproductive earth,
Looked at the frowning castle near at hand,
Whence came all desolations, and worked on
In silent hatred. Near him, tall and black,
The gibbet stood against the leaden sky.
A sound of brutal revelry at times
Fell on his ear, or else a chaunt of monks,
Monotonous and soulless, from afar.
Unless the plague swept by and took him off
With his lean children, and with monk and lord,
He struggled on, and asked no human help.
But often, by the moon's precarious light,
Upon some wild, ill-omened heath, as bare
As the dead level of his misery,
He offered up a midnight mass to him
Who first rebelled. The witch, his priestess, stood,
Not old and shrivelled, as some now might think,
But with an impious beauty in her face,
And black and snake-like locks, and braved aloud
All heaven's bolts. The great satanic reel
Went ever faster, and the pale, chaste moon
Drew o'er her face a fleecy veil of cloud.
Extend immense and desolate; a sea
On which the sun appears for ever set,
And through the lasting twilight we perceive
Some few wrecks of Antiquity. Look back
With me upon those times of woe, when first
The bell's dull tolling marked the close of day,
And rendered sadder nightfall's saddening hour.
The thousand woodland gods of Greece were gone;
The sunlit glades were empty, which had once
With joyous beings teemed. But in the gloom,
In damp and chilly dells of evil name,
Where clumps of henbane and of monkshood grew,
A thousand other beings dwelt instead,
Spiteful and ugly, who on toadstools sat
And waited for the passer-by to cross
6
Dwelt in the depths of sunless forest pools,
And lured the fisher, while the dwarfish Gnomes
Betrayed the miner in the caves of earth.
The world was peopled with fantastic shapes
Of ugliness and fear, which man, alas,
Had formed in his own image. Fear and Hate
And Hunger reigned. The lean and stunted serf,
Nailed to his clod of unproductive earth,
Looked at the frowning castle near at hand,
Whence came all desolations, and worked on
In silent hatred. Near him, tall and black,
The gibbet stood against the leaden sky.
A sound of brutal revelry at times
Fell on his ear, or else a chaunt of monks,
Monotonous and soulless, from afar.
Unless the plague swept by and took him off
With his lean children, and with monk and lord,
He struggled on, and asked no human help.
But often, by the moon's precarious light,
Upon some wild, ill-omened heath, as bare
As the dead level of his misery,
He offered up a midnight mass to him
Who first rebelled. The witch, his priestess, stood,
Not old and shrivelled, as some now might think,
But with an impious beauty in her face,
And black and snake-like locks, and braved aloud
All heaven's bolts. The great satanic reel
Went ever faster, and the pale, chaste moon
Drew o'er her face a fleecy veil of cloud.
I love those ages not; but even they,
Barren and mean and cruel as they were
Have left us things of beauty. Then arose
The great cathedrals, which uplift the cross
Into the clouds, high o'er the hum of life.
See how the patient generations worked
For far posterity. They sought not fame,
But deemed that he would not have lived in vain
Whose hand had added to the glorious pile
An oriel window or a sculptured porch,
Though lost should be his name. The work was slow.
Full well they knew that ere the latest stone
Of dazzling white was laid, high in the sky,
The first would long have blackened been by age,
And unborn kings be sleeping in the crypt.
But year by year the marble forest grew;
The Gothic columns, like gigantic sheaves
Of mighty rushes, higher, higher rose,
And spread, and bent, and met above the aisles
In loftiest arch, and took the tints of time,
While wondrous vistas formed, where, far away,
The softened light streamed through the stainéd glass.
Yes, even those cold ages, when men looked
So little on the beauty of the world,
Bequeathed us things of beauty which endure.
But that was when the long-retarded dawn
Already struggled with the night. For, lo,
A change was coming o'er the face of earth.
Barren and mean and cruel as they were
7
The great cathedrals, which uplift the cross
Into the clouds, high o'er the hum of life.
See how the patient generations worked
For far posterity. They sought not fame,
But deemed that he would not have lived in vain
Whose hand had added to the glorious pile
An oriel window or a sculptured porch,
Though lost should be his name. The work was slow.
Full well they knew that ere the latest stone
Of dazzling white was laid, high in the sky,
The first would long have blackened been by age,
And unborn kings be sleeping in the crypt.
But year by year the marble forest grew;
The Gothic columns, like gigantic sheaves
Of mighty rushes, higher, higher rose,
And spread, and bent, and met above the aisles
In loftiest arch, and took the tints of time,
While wondrous vistas formed, where, far away,
The softened light streamed through the stainéd glass.
Yes, even those cold ages, when men looked
So little on the beauty of the world,
Bequeathed us things of beauty which endure.
But that was when the long-retarded dawn
Already struggled with the night. For, lo,
A change was coming o'er the face of earth.
A change, indeed; all nature's face was changed,
And rendered youthful in the eyes of men.
The trees, which for a thousand years had seemed
Like gibbets in a mist, took beauteous forms;
The scentless flowers filled the air with scent,
And claimed their tints of yore. The dew-drops shone,
The ripened corn resumed its golden hue,
And through the world there passed a breeze of life.
See how Æneas Sylvius takes delight
In the blue waving fields of flow'ring flax;
And thou, Lorenzo, who didst note the charm
Of early winter in thy princely home
Of Ambra, where the dry and rustling leaves
Made, in the thinnéd woods, the steps of one
Sound like the steps of many; where the cranes,
In homeward flight, were printed on the sky;
Where still the cypress some few birds concealed.
What hand in painting nature equals thine?
For thee the Nereids sported as of old
Among the sparkling waters, and the Fauns
Lurked 'mid the forest green. For thee the streams
Were weed-crowned Gods, with voices sweet and low.
All Fancy's numberless creations fair
Repeopled nature; for at last, at last,
The long-lost world of Hellas had been found;
The Sea of Ages, in whose silent depths
Antiquity lay buried, then cast up
Its richest treasures. Every passing day
Brought some new waif: a priceless manuscript,
A noble statue, or an antique gem.
Italian painters did what once the Greeks
Had done in marble, and created forms
Of lasting beauty. Nay, the very Gods
Of Greece revived, and on the canvas stood
Disguised as saints. On capital and frieze
The curly Greek Acanthus bloomed again
Beneath the chisel; Tritons spouted high
From Tuscan founts; and Greek divinities
Peeped from the oaken carvings of a chair.
Those days are far; though still the Sea of Time
Casts on the shore, at intervals, a waif—
An armless Venus or a shattered Faun—
From the great wreck of Greek antiquity.
And who can tell what treasures of the past
Still in the bosom of the future lie?
All sleeping beauty must at last awake,
Nor in its sleep grows old.
And rendered youthful in the eyes of men.
The trees, which for a thousand years had seemed
Like gibbets in a mist, took beauteous forms;
The scentless flowers filled the air with scent,
And claimed their tints of yore. The dew-drops shone,
8
And through the world there passed a breeze of life.
See how Æneas Sylvius takes delight
In the blue waving fields of flow'ring flax;
And thou, Lorenzo, who didst note the charm
Of early winter in thy princely home
Of Ambra, where the dry and rustling leaves
Made, in the thinnéd woods, the steps of one
Sound like the steps of many; where the cranes,
In homeward flight, were printed on the sky;
Where still the cypress some few birds concealed.
What hand in painting nature equals thine?
For thee the Nereids sported as of old
Among the sparkling waters, and the Fauns
Lurked 'mid the forest green. For thee the streams
Were weed-crowned Gods, with voices sweet and low.
All Fancy's numberless creations fair
Repeopled nature; for at last, at last,
The long-lost world of Hellas had been found;
The Sea of Ages, in whose silent depths
Antiquity lay buried, then cast up
Its richest treasures. Every passing day
Brought some new waif: a priceless manuscript,
A noble statue, or an antique gem.
Italian painters did what once the Greeks
Had done in marble, and created forms
Of lasting beauty. Nay, the very Gods
Of Greece revived, and on the canvas stood
Disguised as saints. On capital and frieze
The curly Greek Acanthus bloomed again
9
From Tuscan founts; and Greek divinities
Peeped from the oaken carvings of a chair.
Those days are far; though still the Sea of Time
Casts on the shore, at intervals, a waif—
An armless Venus or a shattered Faun—
From the great wreck of Greek antiquity.
And who can tell what treasures of the past
Still in the bosom of the future lie?
All sleeping beauty must at last awake,
Nor in its sleep grows old.
But I perceive
That, in my flight through ages, I have left
The Dwarf behind me, somewhere in the tenth
Or the eleventh century, his own
Black times. He suits these better days but ill;
So let him in his own black times remain.
That, in my flight through ages, I have left
The Dwarf behind me, somewhere in the tenth
Or the eleventh century, his own
Black times. He suits these better days but ill;
So let him in his own black times remain.
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