 | A Sculptor and Other Poems |  |
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CALLIMACHUS: A SKETCH.
Lo, when my master lay a-dying, I
Alone, he chose, should wait to see him die.
Soft, fine, and bright, even as web at morn,
Hung round his brow his locks: that brow had borne
Much weight of thinking, and the close, grave mouth
Had never curv'd it to the smile that groweth
Of mere light-heartedness. He lay with eyes
Undimm'd of age turn'd full to the sunrise;
And thus he spake in slow tones thrillingly,
Scarce to himself, and scarce, methinks, to me.
Alone, he chose, should wait to see him die.
Soft, fine, and bright, even as web at morn,
Hung round his brow his locks: that brow had borne
Much weight of thinking, and the close, grave mouth
Had never curv'd it to the smile that groweth
Of mere light-heartedness. He lay with eyes
Undimm'd of age turn'd full to the sunrise;
And thus he spake in slow tones thrillingly,
Scarce to himself, and scarce, methinks, to me.
“The earth is older now by fifty years
With all their joy and sorrow and smiles and tears,
Since I, a young man, saw my future rise
From the sun's bed, upon my eager eyes,
With slow, symmetric movements gliding on:
And in her curved palms I saw anon,
Or seem'd to see, life, work, and crown in one.
Yet was her face hid wholly from my sight,
Veil'd with a veil of chrysochromal light.
Thus to my heart my heart—‘The grace to thee
Upon those mute lips' veil'd sublimity,
Is the shaper's hand with the seer's eye to see.’
With all their joy and sorrow and smiles and tears,
Since I, a young man, saw my future rise
From the sun's bed, upon my eager eyes,
With slow, symmetric movements gliding on:
And in her curved palms I saw anon,
Or seem'd to see, life, work, and crown in one.
Yet was her face hid wholly from my sight,
Veil'd with a veil of chrysochromal light.
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Upon those mute lips' veil'd sublimity,
Is the shaper's hand with the seer's eye to see.’
Yea, with these eyes of mine I saw it pass,
The pageant of life's mystery that was.
Groups of old warriors rose from their death-mist;
Lips smil'd that funeral-fires long since had kiss'd;
Brows that were calm'd of dreamless sleep, again
Took their old fierceness, resting limbs their strain.
Deeper the wonder grew, diviner still,
Glow'd the Immortals' track on slope and hill.
There, where the sky stoopt down the earth to meet,
It was the rapture of Phœbus' parting feet
Mellow'd the blue and scarlet colours slow
Into the quivering amethystine glow.
It was the breath of loving Dryades
Stirr'd all the leafage of the happy trees.
The pageant of life's mystery that was.
Groups of old warriors rose from their death-mist;
Lips smil'd that funeral-fires long since had kiss'd;
Brows that were calm'd of dreamless sleep, again
Took their old fierceness, resting limbs their strain.
Deeper the wonder grew, diviner still,
Glow'd the Immortals' track on slope and hill.
There, where the sky stoopt down the earth to meet,
It was the rapture of Phœbus' parting feet
Mellow'd the blue and scarlet colours slow
Into the quivering amethystine glow.
It was the breath of loving Dryades
Stirr'd all the leafage of the happy trees.
Lo, in that glory of my days I saw
A maiden standing, with a shadowy awe
Upon her face that mockt her brows' bright wreath
As with the heavy dusk of coming death;
While stern-fac'd men stood waiting till the knife
Should drink with cold blue lips her crimson life.
Then, with the heat upon me, I essay'd
To paint the picture.—
A maiden standing, with a shadowy awe
Upon her face that mockt her brows' bright wreath
As with the heavy dusk of coming death;
While stern-fac'd men stood waiting till the knife
Should drink with cold blue lips her crimson life.
Then, with the heat upon me, I essay'd
To paint the picture.—
When aside I laid
My brush, I knew full well that none would see
In that false picture what was seen of me.
And, though the many did, with partial eyes,
Praise it as beautiful and true, more wise
To mine own condemnation, lifted I
My hands against that work that was a lie.
Those eyes of Zeus had burn'd into my brain,
And better light than joy, though light be pain;
Yea, Beauty, to my deeming, is in sooth
Bastard that springs not from the womb of Truth.
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In that false picture what was seen of me.
And, though the many did, with partial eyes,
Praise it as beautiful and true, more wise
To mine own condemnation, lifted I
My hands against that work that was a lie.
Those eyes of Zeus had burn'd into my brain,
And better light than joy, though light be pain;
Yea, Beauty, to my deeming, is in sooth
Bastard that springs not from the womb of Truth.
Years did I toil in patience: grew a face
Upon my canvas, wherein I sought to trace
His woe, by the strong victors' pitiless might
Crusht into silence, smitten into night.
The dead wreath fallen from his loosen'd hair,
The hands dropt listless in his dumb despair.
Look, O mine eyes and gaze, and see in this
The very self-same stricken Thamyris!—
A little doubt that rose flood-high, and swept
My hope away!
I bow'd my face and wept,
As he might weep whom Time not yet may rob
Of the child-right to lift his voice and sob.
Upon my canvas, wherein I sought to trace
His woe, by the strong victors' pitiless might
Crusht into silence, smitten into night.
The dead wreath fallen from his loosen'd hair,
The hands dropt listless in his dumb despair.
Look, O mine eyes and gaze, and see in this
The very self-same stricken Thamyris!—
A little doubt that rose flood-high, and swept
My hope away!
I bow'd my face and wept,
As he might weep whom Time not yet may rob
Of the child-right to lift his voice and sob.
Again, more old, more sad, I paus'd to see
A work that was conceiv'd and born of me.
The mortal maid the Immortal God must slay
With splendour, waiting for the hour o' the day
The God who stoopt to love her should arise
In all his unveil'd glory on her eyes.
O soul in the eager eyes and quivering lips!
O transport of the near Apocalypse!
A work that was conceiv'd and born of me.
The mortal maid the Immortal God must slay
With splendour, waiting for the hour o' the day
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In all his unveil'd glory on her eyes.
O soul in the eager eyes and quivering lips!
O transport of the near Apocalypse!
‘Is this the picture that thy soul did see?
Nay.—Let it perish unbelov'd of thee!’
Nay.—Let it perish unbelov'd of thee!’
Well, I was stronger now; perhaps because
The great white Truth had kiss'd my brows, it was:
And, though there throbb'd through every nerve and sense
The agony of conscious impotence,
I, loving Truth beyond all hope, all fame,
Gave all my pictures to the heart o' the flame,
And—waited. A little while ago there came
A light I knew to be the morning star;
I felt its thrills of tremulous sweetness afar,
And rose with happy tears upon my cheek—
Then first I knew that I was old and weak—
And follow'd, faltering, toward the blessed light,
While one walkt with me, stately, tall, and bright,
Who smote upon a lyre, and keen and strong
Uprose the subtle sweetness of his song.
I think I must have swoon'd in my delight,
For, when I knew to speak and see, the white
Folds of his undefiled robe were gone,
And I was lying on the ground alone,
Fever and strife and weariness all ceast
In that fixt solemn gaze upon the East.
And I am well content; the mystery
Is open now, or my brain clear'd to see
How from my seeming failure's bitterness
I shall, in unborn ages, reap success:
Not in myself, a man of men, indeed,
But in the man, one day to take his meed
As victor from the breast of Time, superb
In virile strength that needs nor spur nor curb.
The great white Truth had kiss'd my brows, it was:
And, though there throbb'd through every nerve and sense
The agony of conscious impotence,
I, loving Truth beyond all hope, all fame,
Gave all my pictures to the heart o' the flame,
And—waited. A little while ago there came
A light I knew to be the morning star;
I felt its thrills of tremulous sweetness afar,
And rose with happy tears upon my cheek—
Then first I knew that I was old and weak—
And follow'd, faltering, toward the blessed light,
While one walkt with me, stately, tall, and bright,
Who smote upon a lyre, and keen and strong
Uprose the subtle sweetness of his song.
I think I must have swoon'd in my delight,
For, when I knew to speak and see, the white
Folds of his undefiled robe were gone,
And I was lying on the ground alone,
Fever and strife and weariness all ceast
In that fixt solemn gaze upon the East.
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Is open now, or my brain clear'd to see
How from my seeming failure's bitterness
I shall, in unborn ages, reap success:
Not in myself, a man of men, indeed,
But in the man, one day to take his meed
As victor from the breast of Time, superb
In virile strength that needs nor spur nor curb.
O life! O art! I know that I am pure
From treason, having chosen to endure
Rather the most exceeding pain than show
Shadow for light; I joy that it was so.
From treason, having chosen to endure
Rather the most exceeding pain than show
Shadow for light; I joy that it was so.
Hush! the ascending sun! mine eyeballs beat
To catch his ray: a thousand times more sweet
To perish blind for gazing thus, I know,
Than look unharm'd upon the dusk below.
—Cover my face,”
To catch his ray: a thousand times more sweet
To perish blind for gazing thus, I know,
Than look unharm'd upon the dusk below.
—Cover my face,”
And it was so: and thus
He past away who was Callimachus.
He past away who was Callimachus.
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