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 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 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 (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
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,
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
By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, And are endeared to simple cottagers)
Left not unvisited 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 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 : 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 That 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!
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
THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED.
AMONG a grave fraternity of Monks,
For One, but surely not for One alone,
Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill, Humbling the body, to exalt the soul;
Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong And dissolution and decay, the warm And breathing life of flesh, as if already Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced With no mean earnest of a heritage
Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture! From whose serene companionship I passed, Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; thou also- Though but a simple object, into light
Called forth by those affections that endear
The private hearth; though keeping thy sole seat In singleness, and little tried by time, Creation, as it were, of yesterday - With a congenial function art endued For each and all of us, together joined,
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