 | Poems by a Painter |  |
16
THE UNKNOWN PORTRAIT. No. I.
Shadow with the golden hair,
Phantom with the eyes of blue,
What wild thing of earth or air,
What bright creature pure and fair,
Shall my song compare with you?
Not the stately swan that gleams
At sunrise down the vale of streams;
Not the timid mountain hind,
Light of foot as summer wind;
Not the skylark, as she springs
From her nest on dewy wings,
And up the blue lift soaring sings;
Not the butterfly that dances
All day long from flower to flower;
Not the ephemeris that glances,
Fitful as a poet's fancies,
O'er the tarn beside my bower,
Would I dare to match with you,
Phantom with the eyes of blue!
Phantom with the eyes of blue,
What wild thing of earth or air,
What bright creature pure and fair,
Shall my song compare with you?
Not the stately swan that gleams
At sunrise down the vale of streams;
Not the timid mountain hind,
Light of foot as summer wind;
Not the skylark, as she springs
From her nest on dewy wings,
And up the blue lift soaring sings;
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All day long from flower to flower;
Not the ephemeris that glances,
Fitful as a poet's fancies,
O'er the tarn beside my bower,
Would I dare to match with you,
Phantom with the eyes of blue!
Nor the sweet young crescent moon
In the gloaming-heaven of June;
Nor her shadow on the sea,
When the wind's low minstrelsy
Stirs him in his trancèd sleep;
Nor the rainbow-bells that leap
Where the fairy-fountain falleth,
Softly chiming, ever falleth
In the hollow of the granite,—
Mab's unbraided locks would span it!
Nor a gem of odorous dew
In the bosom of a rose,
With the sunshine streaming through;
Nor that saintliest flower that blows,
The virgin lily, as she bendeth
O'er some lake ere night descendeth;
Nor the planet of the even,—
Of all fairest things in heaven
Or earth most spirit-like and fair—
With your beauty may compare,
Shadow with the golden hair!
In the gloaming-heaven of June;
Nor her shadow on the sea,
When the wind's low minstrelsy
Stirs him in his trancèd sleep;
Nor the rainbow-bells that leap
Where the fairy-fountain falleth,
Softly chiming, ever falleth
In the hollow of the granite,—
Mab's unbraided locks would span it!
Nor a gem of odorous dew
In the bosom of a rose,
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Nor that saintliest flower that blows,
The virgin lily, as she bendeth
O'er some lake ere night descendeth;
Nor the planet of the even,—
Of all fairest things in heaven
Or earth most spirit-like and fair—
With your beauty may compare,
Shadow with the golden hair!
All in vain my fancy strings
Names of earth's divinest things,
Fondly striving to express
Something of your loveliness;
But that loveliness as far
Theirs transcends as doth the star
The dewdrop, or yon stainless round
Of sapphire sky the smirched ground.
For all things most pure and sweet
That nature owneth, blended meet
In this angel form and face,
Stealing unimagined grace
And glory from the unsullied Soul,
That dwells within and lights the whole.
Names of earth's divinest things,
Fondly striving to express
Something of your loveliness;
But that loveliness as far
Theirs transcends as doth the star
The dewdrop, or yon stainless round
Of sapphire sky the smirched ground.
For all things most pure and sweet
That nature owneth, blended meet
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Stealing unimagined grace
And glory from the unsullied Soul,
That dwells within and lights the whole.
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THE UNKNOWN PORTRAIT. No. II.
Brow like summer cloud for whiteness,
Eye of heaven's serenest blue,
Cheek of day-dawn's blushful brightness,
Lip of sunset's rosiest hue,
Glossy ringlets waving free
Round a neck of ivory;
O'er the maiden breast descending,
With its holy whiteness blending,
Scarce its loveliness concealing,
Shading half and half revealing!
Surely ye are but a dream,
So strangely beautiful ye seem!
Or can it be ye shadow forth
A creature who hath walked this earth,
Sent down from heaven a little while
To show how angels look and smile!
Eye of heaven's serenest blue,
Cheek of day-dawn's blushful brightness,
Lip of sunset's rosiest hue,
Glossy ringlets waving free
Round a neck of ivory;
O'er the maiden breast descending,
With its holy whiteness blending,
Scarce its loveliness concealing,
Shading half and half revealing!
Surely ye are but a dream,
So strangely beautiful ye seem!
Or can it be ye shadow forth
A creature who hath walked this earth,
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To show how angels look and smile!
And, even as one on household stairs
Who meets an angel unawares,
Might hold his breath; in silent awe
I stood when first this Shape I saw
Look down with those blue, wondering eyen,
Whose brightness seemed to realise
My childhood's holiest reveries
Of love and innocence divine!—
Who meets an angel unawares,
Might hold his breath; in silent awe
I stood when first this Shape I saw
Look down with those blue, wondering eyen,
Whose brightness seemed to realise
My childhood's holiest reveries
Of love and innocence divine!—
I know thee not; but well my heart
Interprets, darling, what thou art:
Light of some old ancestral hall,
Queen-gem of some proud coronal!
For, certes, such a perfect grace,
Such lustrous loveliness of face,
Such artless majesty as thine
Proclaims thee of no sordid line!—
And, while my waking dreams I weave
Of all thy sweetness, will believe
That somewhere ere its pulse is cold
Thy living form I may behold;
May smooth those locks of rippling gold,
See those down-drooping eyes divine
Bend their calm summer-light on mine,
Hear those moist lips,—that fain would tremble
Into smiles, and but dissemble
Their quaint air of seriousness,—
With music's tenderest tones caress
My soul, or lady-laughter, sweet
As music! watch those silken feet
Flit in the dance, as through the leaves
The white moths flit on summer eves,
Silent and swift—or, lovelier still,
On some free, windy Norland hill,
Tread the brown heath in virgin pride!
Or, haply, by some brooklet side
Glance bare amongst the lilied green,
Flushing the waves with rosy sheen!
Interprets, darling, what thou art:
Light of some old ancestral hall,
Queen-gem of some proud coronal!
For, certes, such a perfect grace,
Such lustrous loveliness of face,
Such artless majesty as thine
Proclaims thee of no sordid line!—
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Of all thy sweetness, will believe
That somewhere ere its pulse is cold
Thy living form I may behold;
May smooth those locks of rippling gold,
See those down-drooping eyes divine
Bend their calm summer-light on mine,
Hear those moist lips,—that fain would tremble
Into smiles, and but dissemble
Their quaint air of seriousness,—
With music's tenderest tones caress
My soul, or lady-laughter, sweet
As music! watch those silken feet
Flit in the dance, as through the leaves
The white moths flit on summer eves,
Silent and swift—or, lovelier still,
On some free, windy Norland hill,
Tread the brown heath in virgin pride!
Or, haply, by some brooklet side
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Flushing the waves with rosy sheen!
Ah! futile dream! yet not in vain
Thou flatterest this weary brain;
For gentle thoughts must come, I trow,
Where such sweet visitants as thou
Have lingered!—And, my gentle child,
I bless thy beauty undefiled,
That in an hour of sorrow stole
Like sunshine on my darkened soul;
And pray that, wheresoe'er thou art,
Young joy may nestle near thy heart,
And sister angels guard thee still
From every touch of earthly ill,
Folding their stainless pinions round
Thy path, to keep it holy ground;
While this, thy Shadow, unto me
Shall guardian angel ever be!
Thou flatterest this weary brain;
For gentle thoughts must come, I trow,
Where such sweet visitants as thou
Have lingered!—And, my gentle child,
I bless thy beauty undefiled,
That in an hour of sorrow stole
Like sunshine on my darkened soul;
And pray that, wheresoe'er thou art,
Young joy may nestle near thy heart,
And sister angels guard thee still
From every touch of earthly ill,
Folding their stainless pinions round
Thy path, to keep it holy ground;
While this, thy Shadow, unto me
Shall guardian angel ever be!
| Poems by a Painter | |