LINES
SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE
LINES
BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care Due to the day’s unfinished task; of pen Or book regardless, and of that fair scene In Nature’s prodigality displayed Before my window, oftentimes and long I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam Of beauty never ceases to enrich The common light; whose stillness charms the air, Or seems to charm it, into like repose; Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 10 Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits With emblematic purity attired In a white vest, white as her marble neck Is, and the pillar of the throat would be But for the shadow by the drooping chin Cast into that recess–the tender shade, The shade and light, both there and everywhere, And through the very atmosphere she breathes, Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill That might from nature have been learnt in the hour 20 When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe’er Thou be that, kindling with a poet’s soul, Hast loved the painter’s true Promethean craft Intensely–from Imagination take 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 30 The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their colour emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer’s voiceless service; but now, seeking nought And shunning nought, 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. 40 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: 50 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 Upon her lap reposing, holds–but mark How slackly, for the absent mind permits No firmer grasp–a little wild-flower, joined As in a posy, with a few pale ears Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped And in their common birthplace sheltered it ‘Till they were plucked together; a blue flower 60 Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed; But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, (Her Father told her so) in youth’s gay dawn Her Mother’s favourite; and the orphan Girl, In her own dawn–a dawn less gay and bright, Loves it, while there in solitary peace She sits, for that departed Mother’s sake. –Not from a source less sacred is derived 70 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction through the face diffused And the whole person. 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 80 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Dearly united, might be swept away From this fair Portrait’s fleshly Archetype, Even by an innocent fancy’s slightest freak Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored To their lost place, or meet in harmony So exquisite; but ‘here’ do they abide, Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality, 90 Stretched forth with trembling hope?–In every realm, From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, Thousands, in each variety of tongue That Europe knows, would echo this appeal; One above all, a Monk who waits on God In the magnific Convent built of yore To sanctify the Escurial palace. He– Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, A British Painter (eminent for truth In character, and depth of feeling, shown 100 By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, And are endeared to simple cottagers)– Came, in that service, to a glorious work, Our Lord’s Last Supper, beautiful as when first The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian’s hand, Graced the Refectory: and there, while both Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, The hoary Father in the Stranger’s ear Breathed out these words:–“Here daily do we sit, Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 110 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze Upon this solemn Company unmoved By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, Until I cannot but believe that they– 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: 120 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, 130 My Song’s Inspirer, once again farewell! 1834.