Florence, 15-
1845
I could have painted pictures like that youth’s
Ye praise so. How my soul springs
up! No bar
Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while
it soothes!
—Never did fate forbid me,
star by star,
To outburst on your night with all my gift
Of fires from God: nor would my flesh
have shrunk
From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift
And wide to heaven, or, straight like
thunder, sunk
To the centre, of an instant; or around
Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
10
The license and the limit, space and bound,
Allowed to truth made visible in man.
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
Each face obedient to its passion’s law,
Each passion clear proclaimed without
a tongue;
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
Pull down the nesting dove’s heart
to its place; 20
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,
And locked the mouth fast, like a castle
braved—
0 human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?
What did ye give me that I have not saved?
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)
Of going—I, in each new picture—forth,
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South,
or North,
Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State,
Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went,
30
Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,
Through old streets named afresh from
the event,
Till it reached home, where learned age should greet
My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct
Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!—
Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked
With love about, and praise, till life should end,
And then not go to heaven, but linger
here,
Here on my earth, earth’s every man my friend—
The thought grew frightful, ’t was
so wildly dear! 40
But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights
Have scared me, like the revels through
a door
Of some strange house of idols at its rites!
This world seemed not the world it was
before:
Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped
. . . Who summoned those cold faces
that begun
To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped
Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,
They drew me forth, and spite of me . . . enough!
These buy and sell our pictures, take
and give, 50
Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
And where they live needs must our pictures
live
And see their faces, listen to their prate,
Partakers of their daily pettiness,
Discussed of—“This I love, or this
I hate,
This like® me more, and this affects
me less!”
Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles
My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint
These endless cloisters and eternal aisles
With the same series. Virgin, Babe
and Saint, 60
With the same cold calm beautiful regard—
At least no merchant traffics in my heart;
The sanctuary’s gloom at least shall ward
Vain tongues from where my pictures stand
apart;
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
They moulder on the damp wall’s travertine,
’Mid echoes the light footstep never
woke.
So, die my pictures! surely, gently die!
O youth, men praise so—holds
their praise its worth? 70
Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry?
Tastes sweet the water with such specks
of earth?
