XL. LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE. BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen The common light; whose stillness charms the air, In a white vest, white as her marble neck When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft The treasure, what mine eyes behold see thou, Even though the Atlantic Ocean roll between. A silver line, that runs from brow to crown And in the middle parts the braided hair, Just serves to show how delicate a soil The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their color emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seeking naught And shunning naught, their own peculiar life Of motion they renounce, and with the head Partake its inclination towards earth In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene, Has but approached the gates of womanhood, Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere. Will not be found. Her right hand, as it lies Across the slender wrist of the left arm Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped Words have something told More than the pencil can, and verily More than is needed, but the precious Art Forgives their interference, Art divine, That both creates and fixes, in despite Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! That posture, and the look of filial love Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Stretched forth with trembling hope?-In every realm, From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, That Europe knows, would echo this appeal - In character, and depth of feeling, shown Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here, They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which by the visitation was disturbed. But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well, My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!* 1834. * The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. It need scarcely be added that Wilkie is the painter alluded to. |