The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
340
EXTRACT XV.
Rome.
Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.— Correggio.—Guido.—Raphael, &c.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen.—Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.
No wonder, Mary, that thy story
Touches all hearts—for there we see
The soul's corruption, and its glory,
Its death and life combin'd in thee.
Touches all hearts—for there we see
The soul's corruption, and its glory,
Its death and life combin'd in thee.
From the first moment, when we find
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,—like demons shrin'd
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when, by touch of Heav'n set free,
Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of Bethany),
And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him,
Whose bitter death-cup from above
Had yet this cordial round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last:—
Till, oh, blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts, less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given,
Ev'n under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,—like demons shrin'd
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when, by touch of Heav'n set free,
Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of Bethany),
And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him,
341
Had yet this cordial round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last:—
Till, oh, blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts, less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given,
Ev'n under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
No wonder, Mary, that thy face,
In all its touching light of tears,
Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears,
Hopeless—were he not taught to see
All hope in Him, who pardon'd thee!
No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumph'd in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Ev'n in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;
That soft Correggio should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form;
That Guido's pale, unearthly hues
Should, in pourtraying thee, grow warm;
That all—from the ideal, grand,
Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth Carlino—should delight
In picturing her, who “lov'd so much,”
And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
In all its touching light of tears,
Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears,
Hopeless—were he not taught to see
All hope in Him, who pardon'd thee!
342
Should oft have triumph'd in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Ev'n in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;
That soft Correggio should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form;
That Guido's pale, unearthly hues
Should, in pourtraying thee, grow warm;
That all—from the ideal, grand,
Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth Carlino—should delight
In picturing her, who “lov'd so much,”
And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
But, Mary, 'mong these bold essays
Of Genius and of Art to raise
A semblance of those weeping eyes—
A vision, worthy of the sphere
Thy faith has earn'd thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,—
None e'er hath match'd, in grief or grace,
Canova's day-dream of thy face,
In those bright sculptur'd forms, more bright
With true expression's breathing light,
Than ever yet, beneath the stroke
Of chisel, into life awoke.
The one , pourtraying what thou wert
In thy first grief,—while yet the flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming power;
And mingling earth's seductive grace
With heav'n's subliming thoughts so well,
We doubt, while gazing, in which place
Such beauty was most form'd to dwell!—
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence, and tears
Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art
With half such speaking power express
The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness.
Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,
Ev'n still, of all their youthful grace,
That loosen'd hair, of which thy brow
Was once so proud,—neglected now!—
Those features, ev'n in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others given,
And those sunk eyes, now lost to earth,
But, to the last, still full of heaven!
Of Genius and of Art to raise
A semblance of those weeping eyes—
A vision, worthy of the sphere
Thy faith has earn'd thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,—
None e'er hath match'd, in grief or grace,
Canova's day-dream of thy face,
343
With true expression's breathing light,
Than ever yet, beneath the stroke
Of chisel, into life awoke.
The one , pourtraying what thou wert
In thy first grief,—while yet the flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming power;
And mingling earth's seductive grace
With heav'n's subliming thoughts so well,
We doubt, while gazing, in which place
Such beauty was most form'd to dwell!—
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence, and tears
Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art
With half such speaking power express
The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness.
344
Ev'n still, of all their youthful grace,
That loosen'd hair, of which thy brow
Was once so proud,—neglected now!—
Those features, ev'n in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others given,
And those sunk eyes, now lost to earth,
But, to the last, still full of heaven!
Wonderful artist! praise, like mine—
Though springing from a soul, that feels
Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame ,
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays ,
Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Such master spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's praise!
Though springing from a soul, that feels
Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame ,
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays ,
Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Such master spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's praise!
This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |