PICTOR IGNOTUS. [FLORENCE, 15—.] I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's 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 Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved, O 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, Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear! 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? Tho' I stooped ... Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me.. enough! And where they live our pictures needs must live, And see their faces, listen to their prate, Discussed of,-"This I love, or this I hate, "This likes 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, 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! Oh, youth, men praise so,-holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. THAT second time they hunted me Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked Bright creeping thro' the moss they love. And when that peril ceased at night, And much beside, two days; the third, To work among the maize; you know, With us, in Lombardy, they bring An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy; I had devised a certain tale Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail |