 | Poems |  |
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THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
[_]
There is a tradition at Rome, that an imaginative French girl died of love for this celebrated statue.
It was a day of festival in Rome,
And to the splendid temple of her saint,
Many a brilliant equipage swept on;
Brave cavaliers reined their impetuous steeds,
While dark-robed priests and bright-eyed peasants strolled,
Through groups of citizens, in gay attire.
The suppliant moan of the blind mendicant,
Blent with the huckster's cry, the urchin's shout,
The clash of harness, and the festive cheer.
Beneath the colonnade ranged the Swiss guards,
With polished halberds—an anomaly,
Of mountain lineage, and yet hirelings!
In the midst rose the majestic obelisk,
Quarried in Egypt, centuries by-gone;
And, on either side, gushed up refreshingly
The lofty fountains, flashing in the sun,
And breathing, o'er the din, a whisper soft,
Yet finely musical as childhood's laugh.
Here a stranger stood in mute observance;
There an artist leaned, and pleased his eye
With all the features of the shifting scene,
Striving to catch its varying light and shade—
The mingled tints of brilliancy and gloom.
Through the dense crowd a lovely maiden pressed
With a calm brow, an eagerness of air,
And an eye exultant with high purpose.
The idle courtier checked his ready jest,
And backward stepped in reverence, as she passed;
The friar turned and blessed her fervently,
Reading the joy in her deep look of love,
That visits pilgrims when their shrine is won.
To the rich chambers of the Vatican
She hurried thoughtfully, nor turned to muse
Upon the many glories clustered there.
There are rooms whose walls are radiant still
With the creations of the early dead—
Raphael, the gifted and the beautiful;
Fit places those for sweet imaginings
And spirit-stirring dreams. She entered not.
Gems of rare hues and cunning workmanship,
Ancient sarcophagi, heroic forms,
Busts of the mighty conquerors of time,
Stirred not a pulse in that fond maiden's heart;
She staid not to peruse the classic face
Of young Augustus, nor lingered to discern
Benignity in Trajan's countenance;
But sped, with fawn-like and familiar step,
On to the threshold of a cabinet;
And then her eye grew brighter, and a flush
Suffused her cheek, as, awe-subdued, she paused,
And, throwing back the ringlets from her brow,
With a light bound and rapturous murmur, stood
Before the statue of the Grecian god:
And to the splendid temple of her saint,
Many a brilliant equipage swept on;
Brave cavaliers reined their impetuous steeds,
While dark-robed priests and bright-eyed peasants strolled,
Through groups of citizens, in gay attire.
The suppliant moan of the blind mendicant,
Blent with the huckster's cry, the urchin's shout,
The clash of harness, and the festive cheer.
Beneath the colonnade ranged the Swiss guards,
With polished halberds—an anomaly,
Of mountain lineage, and yet hirelings!
In the midst rose the majestic obelisk,
Quarried in Egypt, centuries by-gone;
And, on either side, gushed up refreshingly
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And breathing, o'er the din, a whisper soft,
Yet finely musical as childhood's laugh.
Here a stranger stood in mute observance;
There an artist leaned, and pleased his eye
With all the features of the shifting scene,
Striving to catch its varying light and shade—
The mingled tints of brilliancy and gloom.
Through the dense crowd a lovely maiden pressed
With a calm brow, an eagerness of air,
And an eye exultant with high purpose.
The idle courtier checked his ready jest,
And backward stepped in reverence, as she passed;
The friar turned and blessed her fervently,
Reading the joy in her deep look of love,
That visits pilgrims when their shrine is won.
To the rich chambers of the Vatican
She hurried thoughtfully, nor turned to muse
Upon the many glories clustered there.
There are rooms whose walls are radiant still
With the creations of the early dead—
Raphael, the gifted and the beautiful;
Fit places those for sweet imaginings
And spirit-stirring dreams. She entered not.
Gems of rare hues and cunning workmanship,
Ancient sarcophagi, heroic forms,
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Stirred not a pulse in that fond maiden's heart;
She staid not to peruse the classic face
Of young Augustus, nor lingered to discern
Benignity in Trajan's countenance;
But sped, with fawn-like and familiar step,
On to the threshold of a cabinet;
And then her eye grew brighter, and a flush
Suffused her cheek, as, awe-subdued, she paused,
And, throwing back the ringlets from her brow,
With a light bound and rapturous murmur, stood
Before the statue of the Grecian god:
“They tell me thou art stone,
Stern, passionless, and chill,
Dead to the glow of noble thought,
And feeling's holy thrill;
They deem thee but a marble god,
The paragon of art,
A thing to charm the sage's eye,
But not to win the heart.
Stern, passionless, and chill,
Dead to the glow of noble thought,
And feeling's holy thrill;
They deem thee but a marble god,
The paragon of art,
A thing to charm the sage's eye,
But not to win the heart.
“Vain as their own light vows,
And soulless as their gaze,
The thought of quenching my deep love
By such ignoble praise!
I know that through thy parted lips
Language disdains to roll,
While on them rest so gloriously
The beamings of the soul.
And soulless as their gaze,
The thought of quenching my deep love
By such ignoble praise!
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Language disdains to roll,
While on them rest so gloriously
The beamings of the soul.
“I dreamed, but yesternight,
That, gazing, e'en as now,
Rapt in a wild, admiring joy,
On thy majestic brow—
That thy strong arm was round me flung,
And drew me to thy side,
While thy proud lip uncurled in love,
And hailed me as a bride.
That, gazing, e'en as now,
Rapt in a wild, admiring joy,
On thy majestic brow—
That thy strong arm was round me flung,
And drew me to thy side,
While thy proud lip uncurled in love,
And hailed me as a bride.
“And then, methought, we sped,
Like thine own arrow, high,
Through fields of azure, orbs of light,
Amid the boundless sky:
Our way seemed walled with radiant gems,
As fell the starry gleams,
And the floating isles of pearly drops
Gave back their silver beams.
Like thine own arrow, high,
Through fields of azure, orbs of light,
Amid the boundless sky:
Our way seemed walled with radiant gems,
As fell the starry gleams,
And the floating isles of pearly drops
Gave back their silver beams.
“Sphere-music, too, stole by
In the fragrant zephyr's play,
And the hum of worlds boomed solemnly
Across our trackless way:
Upon my cheek the wanton breeze
Thy glowing tresses flung;
Like loving tendrils, round my neck,
A golden band they clung.
In the fragrant zephyr's play,
And the hum of worlds boomed solemnly
Across our trackless way:
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Thy glowing tresses flung;
Like loving tendrils, round my neck,
A golden band they clung.
“Methought thou didst impart
The mysteries of earth,
And whisper lovingly the tale
Of thy celestial birth:
O'er Poetry's sublimest heights
Exultingly we trod;
Thy words were music—uttering
The genius of a god!
The mysteries of earth,
And whisper lovingly the tale
Of thy celestial birth:
O'er Poetry's sublimest heights
Exultingly we trod;
Thy words were music—uttering
The genius of a god!
“Proud one! 'twas but a dream;
For here again thou art,
Thy marble bosom heeding not
My passion-stricken heart.
O, turn that rapturous look on me,
And heave a single sigh—
Give but a glance, breathe but a tone,
One word were ecstasy!
For here again thou art,
Thy marble bosom heeding not
My passion-stricken heart.
O, turn that rapturous look on me,
And heave a single sigh—
Give but a glance, breathe but a tone,
One word were ecstasy!
“Still mute? Then must I yield:
This fire will scathe my breast;
This weary heart will throb itself
To an eternal rest.
Yet still my soul claims fellowship
With the exalted grace,
The bright and thrilling earnestness,
The godlike in thy face.
This fire will scathe my breast;
This weary heart will throb itself
To an eternal rest.
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With the exalted grace,
The bright and thrilling earnestness,
The godlike in thy face.
“Thou wilt relent at last,
And turn thy love-lit eye
In pity on me, noble one!
To bless me ere I die.
And now, farewell, my vine-clad home,
Farewell, immortal youth!
Let me behold thee when Love calls
The martyr to her truth!”
And turn thy love-lit eye
In pity on me, noble one!
To bless me ere I die.
And now, farewell, my vine-clad home,
Farewell, immortal youth!
Let me behold thee when Love calls
The martyr to her truth!”
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