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The complete poetical works of Thomas Campbell

Oxford edition: Edited, with notes by J. Logie Robertson

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STANZAS TO PAINTING

[_]

(Published in the seventh edition 4to of The Pleasures of Hope, in 1803)

O thou by whose expressive art
Her perfect image nature sees
In union with the graces start,
And sweeter by reflection please,—

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In whose creative hand the hues
Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine,—
I bless thee, Promethéan muse!
And call thee brightest of the Nine,
Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
Whose lineage in a raptured hour
From love, the sire of nature, sprung.

The allusion in the third stanza is to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of painting—that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep.


Does hope her high possession meet?
Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.
But oh! thou pulse of pleasure dear,
Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.
Then for a beam of joy! to light
In memory's sad and wakeful eye,
Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.
Shall song its witching cadence roll?
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat?
What visions rise to charm, to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt!
And cease that solace too severe!
But thou, serenely silent art!
By heaven and love wast taught to lend
A milder solace to the heart,
The sacred image of a friend.

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All is not lost if, yet possessed,
To me that sweet memorial shine;
If close and closer to my breast
I hold that idol all divine;
Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o'er the loved departed form,
Till death's cold bosom half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.
She looks! she lives! this trancèd hour
Her bright eye seems a purer gem
Than sparkles on the throne of power
Or glory's wealthy diadem.
Yes, Genius, yes! thy mimic aid
A treasure to my soul has given,
Where beauty's canonizèd shade
Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.
No spectre forms of pleasure fled
Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;
For thou canst give us back the dead
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.
Then blest be nature's guardian muse!
Whose hand her perished grace redeems,
Whose tablet of a thousand hues
The mirror of creation seems.
From love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent,
And call thee brightest of the Nine!