  Leonardo da Vinci is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of Mona Lisa, a fair Florentine, without being able to come up to the idea of her beauty. Artist! lay the brush aside; Twilight gathers chill and gray; Turn the picture to the wall,— Thou hast wrought in vain to-day. Thrice twelve months have hastened by Since thy canvas first grew bright With that brow's bewitching beauty, And that dark eye's melting light. On thy tireless labors yet, And the portrait stands before thee Till the evening sun has set. Faultless is the robe that falleth Round that form of matchless grace; Faultless is the softened outline Of the fair and oval face. Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty Of the round cheek's roseate hue, And the full, red lips are smiling As this morn they smiled on you. To that Lady thou hast given Immortality below; Wherefore then, with moody glances, Dost thou from thy labor go? Beams the soul's expressive ray, And with all thy god-like genius This thou never canst portray. Of the countless throng around me Each hath labors like to thine, Each, methinks, some Mona Lisa In his spirit's inmost shrine. Visions haunt us from our childhood Of a love so pure, so true, Time and tears, and care and anguish, Leave it steadfast, fair and new;— Visions that elude for ever, As the silent years depart, Some unhappy ones and weary,— Mona Lisas of the heart. God's angelic ones attain, Pass amid our toils before us, And we emulate in vain. Poet fancies crowd the spirit, We would print upon the scroll— But that perfect utterance faileth— Mona Lisas of the soul. |
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