 | Brother Fabian's Manuscript |  |
True Friend and Master!—known, alas, too late!—
What dreams of Art were thine, when first thy youth
Held converse with the Archangels of the South,
Raphael and Michael, and those lesser glories,
Giotto, Orcagna, and their feres, whose stories
Speak, shapeful, deathless on Ausonian walls?—
What dreams! what sheen of gleaming intervals,
As when in paths untrod
Pure eyes catch glimpses of the skirts of God!
And thou, too, wert a Painter?—
What dreams of Art were thine, when first thy youth
Held converse with the Archangels of the South,
Raphael and Michael, and those lesser glories,
Giotto, Orcagna, and their feres, whose stories
Speak, shapeful, deathless on Ausonian walls?—
What dreams! what sheen of gleaming intervals,
As when in paths untrod
Pure eyes catch glimpses of the skirts of God!
And thou, too, wert a Painter?—
Ah, not so!
Yet evermore under the motley show
Of madliest mirthful fancies, clearly yet
Didst thou reveal thy teachings, nor forget
Wholly thine old ambitions!
Yet evermore under the motley show
Of madliest mirthful fancies, clearly yet
Didst thou reveal thy teachings, nor forget
Wholly thine old ambitions!
There, too, there,
Unknown, yet rightful heir
Of Chaucer, listening to Petrarca's tales;
Of Milton, lingering in Sibylline dales;
Of Shelley, chanting Adonäis' dirge;
Of Byron, mourning Shelley, when the surge
Yielded his white limbs to the friendly pyre,
As though earth durst not tomb that child of heavenly fire;—
There, even there, didst thou too learn to fashion
The fire of God that lives in human passion
Into keen arrows of sweet poesy:—
Nor love alone! Thine, too, of old the high
Moods of young Fancy, when in yonder land
Hesperian forth she wanders, and with hand
Unchallenged, plucks of amaranthine trees
The golden glory of the Atlantides!—
Or, day-dream-piloted, the Siren's song
Hears o'er the deep, Sicilian caves among,
While the gods waken, and Parthenope
Forgets her long trance by the Midland sea;
With the old witchery singing her sweet lies
To mariners of forlorn argosies:—
Promise of Love and Empire, and more deep,
Nepenthes and irrefragable sleep!
Thou, thou hast watched her through the caves at eve,
Ruthlessly fair, with eyes that never grieve,
Gliding, the sunset flushing her white breast,
To slay the brooding halcyon on her nest!—
O, when in after days, Ulysses, thou
Versed in all lore of cities and of men,
Didst hear indeed those Siren-songs again,
Fell there no fleeting shadow on thy brow?
Stirred they no bitter memory with their smiles,
Thelxiope or Lysia, whose sweet wiles
Wrecked every bark save thine that neared their bone-strewn isles?
256
Of Chaucer, listening to Petrarca's tales;
Of Milton, lingering in Sibylline dales;
Of Shelley, chanting Adonäis' dirge;
Of Byron, mourning Shelley, when the surge
Yielded his white limbs to the friendly pyre,
As though earth durst not tomb that child of heavenly fire;—
There, even there, didst thou too learn to fashion
The fire of God that lives in human passion
Into keen arrows of sweet poesy:—
Nor love alone! Thine, too, of old the high
Moods of young Fancy, when in yonder land
Hesperian forth she wanders, and with hand
Unchallenged, plucks of amaranthine trees
The golden glory of the Atlantides!—
Or, day-dream-piloted, the Siren's song
Hears o'er the deep, Sicilian caves among,
While the gods waken, and Parthenope
Forgets her long trance by the Midland sea;
257
To mariners of forlorn argosies:—
Promise of Love and Empire, and more deep,
Nepenthes and irrefragable sleep!
Thou, thou hast watched her through the caves at eve,
Ruthlessly fair, with eyes that never grieve,
Gliding, the sunset flushing her white breast,
To slay the brooding halcyon on her nest!—
O, when in after days, Ulysses, thou
Versed in all lore of cities and of men,
Didst hear indeed those Siren-songs again,
Fell there no fleeting shadow on thy brow?
Stirred they no bitter memory with their smiles,
Thelxiope or Lysia, whose sweet wiles
Wrecked every bark save thine that neared their bone-strewn isles?
| Brother Fabian's Manuscript | |