 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
27
SECTION II. BRUSH AND CHISEL
29
ON A GROUP OF FRA ANGELICO'S ANGELS.
What Tuscan sunset, what aerial gold,
Condensed its flakes to make these aureoled shapes,
These bright winged trumpeters that colour drapes
In robes of glow and wonder from of old;
Condensed its flakes to make these aureoled shapes,
These bright winged trumpeters that colour drapes
In robes of glow and wonder from of old;
As if they roamed those pale-green depths that hold
The topaz isles and diamond-outlined capes,
When, through the West's great gate, as he escapes,
Light flings his fan, for seraphim to fold?
The topaz isles and diamond-outlined capes,
When, through the West's great gate, as he escapes,
Light flings his fan, for seraphim to fold?
Or were they born of such bright drifts as now,
Like countless cherub winglets of gold down,
Are crossing Florence at the Angels' hour;
Like countless cherub winglets of gold down,
Are crossing Florence at the Angels' hour;
When through the summer air comes deep and slow
Across the olive hill which hides the town,
The boom of a great bell from Giotto's tower?
Across the olive hill which hides the town,
The boom of a great bell from Giotto's tower?
30
THE EVER YOUNG.
I.
There are round lips that once obtained a draught
From the deep sapphire of the Fount of Youth;
Lips old, yet young, whose smile attests the truth
Of that great dream at which the wise have laughed;
From the deep sapphire of the Fount of Youth;
Lips old, yet young, whose smile attests the truth
Of that great dream at which the wise have laughed;
And there are brows, which still, by magic craft,
Defy the years that know nor rest nor ruth,
And which remain, in spite of Time's dull tooth,
As radiant as the wondrous water quaffed.
Defy the years that know nor rest nor ruth,
And which remain, in spite of Time's dull tooth,
As radiant as the wondrous water quaffed.
But not of living flesh and blood are they;
And Art alone can give their long youth birth,
And bid them keep it while mere men grow gray.
And Art alone can give their long youth birth,
And bid them keep it while mere men grow gray.
Art makes the only ever young on earth;
Shapes which can keep, till crumbled quite away,
A young saint's rapture or a young faun's mirth.
Shapes which can keep, till crumbled quite away,
A young saint's rapture or a young faun's mirth.
31
THE EVER YOUNG.
II.
What impious wrinkle ever marred the cheek
Of that proud beauty, armless from of old,
Who stands, though twenty centuries are scroll'd,
Young as when first she smiled upon the Greek?
Of that proud beauty, armless from of old,
Who stands, though twenty centuries are scroll'd,
Young as when first she smiled upon the Greek?
What thread of silver ever dared to streak
The wavy wonder of the wanton gold
Round Titian's Magdalen, while men behold
Each other whiten as their lives grow bleak?
The wavy wonder of the wanton gold
Round Titian's Magdalen, while men behold
Each other whiten as their lives grow bleak?
And those more breathing beings that the pen
Creates of subtler substance than the brush
Or chisel ever dealt with—What of them?
Creates of subtler substance than the brush
Or chisel ever dealt with—What of them?
Are Juliet's eyes less bright in those of men,
Her cheek less oval; and will ages crush
The youth from out Pompilia's frail cut stem?
Her cheek less oval; and will ages crush
The youth from out Pompilia's frail cut stem?
32
THE EVER YOUNG.
III.
And yet Art's wonders are at last Death's prize:
The shattered marble crumbles into lime;
Canvas and Fresco perish under grime;
The pen's great shapes will die when language dies.
The shattered marble crumbles into lime;
Canvas and Fresco perish under grime;
The pen's great shapes will die when language dies.
The Milo stone will go where lime's dust flies,
And Titian's Magdalen turn black with time;
Juliet will end with England's tongue and rhyme,
Pompilia, too, that other shapes may rise.
And Titian's Magdalen turn black with time;
Juliet will end with England's tongue and rhyme,
Pompilia, too, that other shapes may rise.
But not a wrinkle will o'ercreep their brow,
Nor thread of silver mar the locks we love,
However oft a century's knell has rung;
Nor thread of silver mar the locks we love,
However oft a century's knell has rung;
And when they die they will be fair as now;
For they are cherished by the gods above;
And those the gods are fond of, perish young.
For they are cherished by the gods above;
And those the gods are fond of, perish young.
33
ON RAPHAEL'S ARCHANGEL MICHAEL.
From out the depths of crocus-coloured morn,
With rush of wings, the young Archangel came,
And diamond spear; and leapt, as leaps a flame,
On Satan, where the light was scarcely born;
With rush of wings, the young Archangel came,
And diamond spear; and leapt, as leaps a flame,
On Satan, where the light was scarcely born;
And roll'd the sunless Rebel, bruis'd and torn,
Upon the earth's bare plain, in dust and shame,
Holding awhile his spear's suspended aim
Above the rayless head in radiant scorn.
Upon the earth's bare plain, in dust and shame,
Holding awhile his spear's suspended aim
Above the rayless head in radiant scorn.
So leaps within the soul on Wrong or Lust
The warrior Angel whom we deem not near,
And rolls the rebel impulse in the dust,
The warrior Angel whom we deem not near,
And rolls the rebel impulse in the dust,
Scathing its neck with his triumphal tread,
And holding high his bright coercing spear
Above its inexterminable head.
And holding high his bright coercing spear
Above its inexterminable head.
34
ON TWO OF SIGNORELLI'S FRESCOES.
I.—THE RISING OF THE DEAD.
I saw a vast bare plain, and, overhead,
A half-chilled sun that shed a sickly light;
While far and wide, till out of reach of sight,
The earth's thin crust was heaving with the dead,
A half-chilled sun that shed a sickly light;
While far and wide, till out of reach of sight,
The earth's thin crust was heaving with the dead,
Who, as they struggled from their dusty bed,
At first mere bones, by countless years made white,
Took gradual flesh, and stood all huddled tight
In mute, dull groups, as yet too numb to dread.
At first mere bones, by countless years made white,
Took gradual flesh, and stood all huddled tight
In mute, dull groups, as yet too numb to dread.
And all the while the summoning trump on high
With rolling thunder never ceased to shake
The livid vault of that unclouded sky,
With rolling thunder never ceased to shake
The livid vault of that unclouded sky,
Calling fresh hosts of skeletons to take
Each his identity; until well-nigh
The whole dry worn-out earth appeared to wake.
Each his identity; until well-nigh
The whole dry worn-out earth appeared to wake.
35
II.—THE BINDING OF THE LOST.
In monstrous caverns, lit but by the glare
From pools of molten stone, the lost are pent
In silent herds,—dim, shadowy, vaguely blent,
Yet each alone with his own black despair;
From pools of molten stone, the lost are pent
In silent herds,—dim, shadowy, vaguely blent,
Yet each alone with his own black despair;
While, through the thickness of the lurid air,
The flying fiends, from some far unseen vent,
Bring on their bat-wing'd backs, in swift descent,
The souls who swell the waiting myriads there.
The flying fiends, from some far unseen vent,
Bring on their bat-wing'd backs, in swift descent,
The souls who swell the waiting myriads there.
And then begins the binding of the lost
With snaky thongs, before they be transferred
To realms of utter flame or utter frost;
With snaky thongs, before they be transferred
To realms of utter flame or utter frost;
And, like a sudden ocean boom, is heard,
Uprising from the dim and countless host,
Pain's first vague roar, Hell's first wild useless word.
Uprising from the dim and countless host,
Pain's first vague roar, Hell's first wild useless word.
36
THE WAIFS OF TIME.
When some great ship has long ago been wreck'd,
And the repentant waves have long since laid
Upon the beach the booty that they made,
And few remember still, and none expect,
And the repentant waves have long since laid
Upon the beach the booty that they made,
And few remember still, and none expect,
The Sea will sometimes suddenly eject
A louely shattered waif, still undecayed,
That tells of lives with which an old storm played,
In a carved name that graybeards recollect.
A louely shattered waif, still undecayed,
That tells of lives with which an old storm played,
In a carved name that graybeards recollect.
So ever and anon the soundless sea
Which we call Time, casts up upon the strand
Some tardy waif from lost antiquity:
Which we call Time, casts up upon the strand
Some tardy waif from lost antiquity:
A stained maimed god, a faun with shattered hand,
From Art's great wreck is suddenly set free,
And stands before us as immortals stand.
From Art's great wreck is suddenly set free,
And stands before us as immortals stand.
37
TO THE SO-CALLED VENUS OF MILO.
I.
Thou armless Splendour, Victory's own breath;
Embraceless Beauty, Strength bereft of hands;
To whose high pedestal a hundred lands
Send rent of awe, and sons to stand beneath;
Embraceless Beauty, Strength bereft of hands;
To whose high pedestal a hundred lands
Send rent of awe, and sons to stand beneath;
To whom Adonis never brought a wreath,
Nor Tannhäuser a song, but whose commands
Were blindly followed, by immortal bands
Who wooed thee at Thermopylæ in death:
Nor Tannhäuser a song, but whose commands
Were blindly followed, by immortal bands
Who wooed thee at Thermopylæ in death:
No Venus thou; but nurse of legions steeled
By Freedom's self, where rang her highest note,
And never has thy bosom felt a kiss:
By Freedom's self, where rang her highest note,
And never has thy bosom felt a kiss:
No Venus thou; but on the golden shield
Which once thy lost left held, thy lost right wrote:
‘At Marathon and briny Salamis.’
Which once thy lost left held, thy lost right wrote:
‘At Marathon and briny Salamis.’
38
TO THE SO-CALLED VENUS OF MILO.
II.
Perhaps thy arms are lying where they hold
The roots of some old olive, which strikes deep
In Attic earth; or where the Greek girls reap,
With echoes of the harvest hymns of old;
The roots of some old olive, which strikes deep
In Attic earth; or where the Greek girls reap,
With echoes of the harvest hymns of old;
Or haply in some seaweed-cushioned fold
Of warm Greek seas, which shadows of ships sweep,
While prying dolphins through the green ribs peep,
Of sunken galleys filled with Persian gold.
Of warm Greek seas, which shadows of ships sweep,
While prying dolphins through the green ribs peep,
Of sunken galleys filled with Persian gold.
Or were they shattered,—pounded back to lime,
To make the mortar for some Turkish tower
Which overshadowed Freedom for a time?
To make the mortar for some Turkish tower
Which overshadowed Freedom for a time?
Or strewn as dust, to make, with sun and shower,
The grain and vine and olive of their clime,
As was the hand which wrought them in an hour?
The grain and vine and olive of their clime,
As was the hand which wrought them in an hour?
39
ON AN ILLUSTRATION IN DORÉ'S DANTE.
I.
No, heaven is not like this; nor are the hosts
Of the Eternal Sunrise like these flocks
Of dim gray gulls, which seem from off the rocks
Of utmost Thulë's tempest-tortured coasts;
Of the Eternal Sunrise like these flocks
Of dim gray gulls, which seem from off the rocks
Of utmost Thulë's tempest-tortured coasts;
But brighter than the sparkling rosy frosts
Of topless Himalay, when Dawn unlocks
Light's doors on India; and the glory mocks
What rays then stream through Morning's cloudy posts.
Of topless Himalay, when Dawn unlocks
Light's doors on India; and the glory mocks
What rays then stream through Morning's cloudy posts.
I know it as I once was taken there
By one who held, though breathing still our air,
The diamond clue to that broad dream-made shore
By one who held, though breathing still our air,
The diamond clue to that broad dream-made shore
‘Where the great multitude that no man knows,
In garments white as Lebanon's first snows,
Walk in the sunrise, knowing death no more.’
In garments white as Lebanon's first snows,
Walk in the sunrise, knowing death no more.’
40
ON AN ILLUSTRATION IN DORÉ'S DANTE.
II.
When Dante went with Beatrice of old
To Light's transcendent and eternal springs,
Where clustered angels glow in wondrous strings
Of mystic roses, wreathed and fast unrolled;
To Light's transcendent and eternal springs,
Where clustered angels glow in wondrous strings
Of mystic roses, wreathed and fast unrolled;
Or when he saw, on incandescent gold,
The great quadrilles of seraphs form their rings
And wind in endless figures—all the wings
Were gleaming there, that Heaven can spread or fold.
The great quadrilles of seraphs form their rings
And wind in endless figures—all the wings
Were gleaming there, that Heaven can spread or fold.
And gleam they ever will, in the pure height
Of sky within us, when the soul upgoes
To spheres of higher self, from clods and night,
Of sky within us, when the soul upgoes
To spheres of higher self, from clods and night,
Where petals in the luminous gold unclose,
And angels, clustered in a rose of light,
Glow as a minster's great rose window glows.
And angels, clustered in a rose of light,
Glow as a minster's great rose window glows.
41
ON MANTEGNA'S DRAWING OF JUDITH.
I.
What stony, bloodless Judith hast thou made,
Mantegna—draped in many a stony fold?
What walking sleeper whose benumb'd hands hold
A stony head and an unbloody blade?
Mantegna—draped in many a stony fold?
What walking sleeper whose benumb'd hands hold
A stony head and an unbloody blade?
In thine own savage days, wast thou afraid
To paint such Judiths as thou mightst behold
In open street, and paint the heads that rolled
Beneath the axe, and that each square displayed?
To paint such Judiths as thou mightst behold
In open street, and paint the heads that rolled
Beneath the axe, and that each square displayed?
No, no; not such was Judith, on the night
When, in the silent camp, she watched alone,
Like some dumb tigress, in the tent's dim light
When, in the silent camp, she watched alone,
Like some dumb tigress, in the tent's dim light
Her sleeping prey; nor when, her dark deed done,
She seized the head, and feasted thought and sight
Upon a ball that was no ball of stone.
She seized the head, and feasted thought and sight
Upon a ball that was no ball of stone.
42
ON MANTEGNA'S DRAWING OF JUDITH.
II.
There was a gleam of jewels in the tent
Which one dim cresset lit—a baleful gleam—
And from his scattered armour seemed to stream
A dusky, evil light that came and went.
Which one dim cresset lit—a baleful gleam—
And from his scattered armour seemed to stream
A dusky, evil light that came and went.
But from her eyes, as over him she bent,
Watching the surface of his drunken dream,
There shot a deadlier ray, a darker beam,
A look in which her life's one lust found vent.
Watching the surface of his drunken dream,
There shot a deadlier ray, a darker beam,
A look in which her life's one lust found vent.
There was a hissing through her tightened teeth,
As with her scimitar she crouched above
His dark, doomed head, and held her perilous breath,
As with her scimitar she crouched above
His dark, doomed head, and held her perilous breath,
While ever and anon she saw him move
His red lascivious lips, and smile beneath
His curled and scented beard, and mutter love.
His red lascivious lips, and smile beneath
His curled and scented beard, and mutter love.
43
ON THE HORSES OF ST. MARK.
There be four brazen stallions of the breed
That Niké drove at Marathon a breast,
Who march before St. Mark's with pace repress'd,
As if her self were curbing-in their speed;
That Niké drove at Marathon a breast,
Who march before St. Mark's with pace repress'd,
As if her self were curbing-in their speed;
Marching as they have marched through crowd and creed
Down all Antiquity with clip-maned crest,
And through the Middle Times with broad bronze chest,
To trample down the Present like a reed.
Down all Antiquity with clip-maned crest,
And through the Middle Times with broad bronze chest,
To trample down the Present like a reed.
They march towards the Future of the world,
In Time not Space; and what the path is through
Is writ in shadowy scrolls not yet unfurl'd;
In Time not Space; and what the path is through
Is writ in shadowy scrolls not yet unfurl'd;
And as they march, the pigeons waltz and coo
Upon their sunlit backs, when eve has curl'd
The still canals, as eve is wont to do.
Upon their sunlit backs, when eve has curl'd
The still canals, as eve is wont to do.
44
ON A SURF-ROLLED TORSO OF VENUS.
DISCOVERED AT TRIPOLI VECCHIO.
One day, in the world's youth, long, long ago,
Before the golden hair of Time grew gray,
The bright warm sea, scarce stirred by dolphins' play,
Was swept by sudden music strange and low;
Before the golden hair of Time grew gray,
The bright warm sea, scarce stirred by dolphins' play,
Was swept by sudden music strange and low;
And rippling with the kisses Zephyrs blow,
Gave forth a dripping goddess, whose strong sway
All earth, all air, all wave, was to obey,
Throned on a shell more rosy than dawn's glow.
Gave forth a dripping goddess, whose strong sway
All earth, all air, all wave, was to obey,
Throned on a shell more rosy than dawn's glow.
And, lo, that self-same sea has now upthrown
A mutilated Venus, roll'd and roll'd
For centuries in surf, and who has grown
A mutilated Venus, roll'd and roll'd
For centuries in surf, and who has grown
More soft, more chaste, more lovely than of old,
With every line made vague, so that the stone
Seems seen as through a veil which Ages hold.
With every line made vague, so that the stone
Seems seen as through a veil which Ages hold.
45
FADING GLORIES.
I.
The gold of nimbus and of background sky,
Around the auburn heads of sweet young saints
Still glows in frescoed cloisters; but the paints
Are fading on the wall since Faith's good-bye.
Around the auburn heads of sweet young saints
Still glows in frescoed cloisters; but the paints
Are fading on the wall since Faith's good-bye.
And you, blond angel throngs, who stand and try
Your citherns' golden strings; the colour faints
Upon your pure green robes, which mildew taints;
You sing your last hosanna, ere you die.
Your citherns' golden strings; the colour faints
Upon your pure green robes, which mildew taints;
You sing your last hosanna, ere you die.
The age that made the aureoled is long dead;
The gold behind their heads is sinking sun,
And night will wrap them in its pall of lead:
The gold behind their heads is sinking sun,
And night will wrap them in its pall of lead:
They are the dream-shapes of a time when none
Hoped earthly good; and long by man's dark bed
They stood and smiled. They fade; their task is done.
Hoped earthly good; and long by man's dark bed
They stood and smiled. They fade; their task is done.
46
FADING GLORIES.
II.
In or and azure were they shrined of old,
Where led dim aisle to glowing stained-glass rose,
Like life's dim lane, with Heaven at its close;
Where censer swung, and organ-thunder rolled;
Where led dim aisle to glowing stained-glass rose,
Like life's dim lane, with Heaven at its close;
Where censer swung, and organ-thunder rolled;
Where mitred, croziered, and superbly stoled,
Pale pontiffs gleamed, in dusky minster shows;
Where, like a soul that trembling skyward goes,
The Easter hymn soared up on wings of gold.
Pale pontiffs gleamed, in dusky minster shows;
Where, like a soul that trembling skyward goes,
The Easter hymn soared up on wings of gold.
And now they stand with aureoles that time dims
Near young Greek fauns that pagan berries wreathe,
In crowded glaring galleries of dead art.
Near young Greek fauns that pagan berries wreathe,
In crowded glaring galleries of dead art.
Their hands still fold; their lips still sing faint hymns;
Or are they prayers that beautiful shapes breathe
For shelter in some cold eclectic heart?
Or are they prayers that beautiful shapes breathe
For shelter in some cold eclectic heart?
47
ON LEONARDO'S HEAD OF MEDUSA.
The livid and unutterable head,
Fresh cut, lies welt'ring in its mane of snakes;
A slowly writhing tangle which still takes
Its time to die, round temples that are dead;
Fresh cut, lies welt'ring in its mane of snakes;
A slowly writhing tangle which still takes
Its time to die, round temples that are dead;
While through the lips, wet as with froth of lead,
Like the last breath of horror which forsakes
Evil's cut throat, a poisonous vapour makes
Its way from Hell to Heaven, vague and dread.
Like the last breath of horror which forsakes
Evil's cut throat, a poisonous vapour makes
Its way from Hell to Heaven, vague and dread.
Already blind, the dying vipers grope,
Writhing in vain to leave the head they loathe,
Now that it lies there, gory, dead and wan;
Writhing in vain to leave the head they loathe,
Now that it lies there, gory, dead and wan;
Each strangling each in coils of creeping rope,
Till death invades them from the brows they clothe,
And they coagulate. A toad looks on.
Till death invades them from the brows they clothe,
And they coagulate. A toad looks on.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |