Dramatic Scenes :: :: University of Virginia Library

These are the marble stairs (come on!) which lead
To the famous picture galleries; so, take heed!
On every side are wonders:—You will see
Gems to make rich a nation's treasury.
Our Duke who owns them—[Ah, would he could hear!
Impenetrably deaf! Well, we must steer
By sight.]—Observe now, where my finger points.
That is our Raffaelle's work. See who anoints
Christ's feet: How humbly the poor mourner kneels!
How the bowed head her gentle soul reveals!
[I'll write all on my tablets, as we walk.]
—There, by the barren rocks, again she lies,
Witching the admiration from our eyes:

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That is Correggio's desert Magdalen.
Above, you recognise the man whom men
Worship, old Michael. Those gaunt heads in chalk;
That sketch where two grim saints or sages stalk,

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Are his. Beyond, you see a blazing Thought
Of Titian, in his radiant morning wrought,
Ere kings bent down, and courtiers sought his ear:—
In front (Friuli's mountains in the rear)
Are white nymphs revelling in a summer pool;
Some, on the moist green grass, drink in the cool,
Not dreaming that the hunter hides so near.

You grasp my arm—you tremble?—Tush, no fear!
Ah, yes; I understand.—Gods, what a face!
What eyes, where Grief and Love thus interlace!
Around that brow what burning locks entwine!
The mouth—it speaks! Those mute words, (so divine,)
Have told the lady's story many years.
Her name is lost!—The painter? He appears
There, on the carvèd frame,—“Giorgione.” None
Now dip their pencil in the setting sun
Like him. Who else could shape a dream so bright,
Or crown it with that sad and thoughtful light?
Ere you pass on, note how the smile just dies
Upon her parted mouth, where Love still lies;
And all the world of sorrow in those eyes!
Good, good! I love to see those tears. They tell
You understand the graceful painter well.
Turn hither, now: And let your eyes be led
To Guido's angel,—his white wings outspread;
His hand suspended,—there,—as tho' he heard
(Gazing afar) some sweet seraphic word.

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—How the boy smiles, as though he heard the song!
Well, God is good, and human faith is strong.
Perhaps he feels the hymn enter his brain
Through some mysterious paths of joyful pain,
Which to our grosser sense are shut. Who knows
The hundred cells where lurk our neighbour's woes?
Who from what cause each graver pleasure springs
That soothes him when the raven Tempest sings?
To some the merry skylark's morning notes
Fall sad from out the skies wherein he floats:
And some delight in melancholy sounds;
And some hate music. In their golden rounds
The poets go, striking the vain sweet lyre!
How few they charm, alas! and none inspire.
Breathing amidst the deaf, who hear them not,
They sing, and toil, and die,—and are forgot!

Boy, thou shalt be a painter.—I give him Hope,
That fickle fairy, who will not elope,
So long as in his warm blood crimsons youth,
So long perhaps as he is true to Truth.
Yet,—as I gaze upon these pictures, drawn
Many in colours brighter than the dawn;
Some touched with humour, such as bees might sip
In summer-time from Ariosto's lip,
I think of all the baffled hopes and pains
That men endure, to reach some sordid gains!
Some gains?—am I not ignorantly wrong?

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My thought must err. The seed of Poet's song,
Of Artists' inspiration, when they reach
That rare expression, which is kin to speech,
Must spring from a deeper source,—some inward bliss,
Some airy ambitious hope,—

But, how is this?
The crowd descends. What, is the day so low?
Then we'll depart. In truth, 'tis better so,
Than wear his spirit down with too much pleasure.
To-morrow we will come again, and measure
Florence with Rome,—with Venice. That being done,
He shall go home and dream how Fame may still be won.