Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.—The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.—The
Beginnings of the Art.—Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.—
Improvements under Giotto, etc.—The first Dawn of the true Style in
Masaccio.—Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.—Leonardo da
Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.—His Knowledge of
Mathematics and of Music.—His female heads all like each other.—
Triangular Faces.—Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.—Picture of Vanity and
Modesty.—His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.—Faded and almost
effaced.

Filled with the wonders I had seen
In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,
I felt the veil of sleep serene
Come o'er the memory of each scene,
As twilight o'er the landscape falls.
Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,
But such as suits a poet's rest—
That sort of thin, transparent sleep,
Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best.
Methought upon a plain I stood,
Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said,
With strange, miraculous power endued,
Were coming each in turn to shed
His art's illusions o'er the sight
And call up miracles of light.
The sky above this lonely place,
Was of that cold, uncertain hue,
The canvas wears ere, warmed apace,
Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east
Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1]
And as the feeble light increased,
Strange figures moved across the sky,
With golden glories deckt and streaks
Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2]
And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks,
But naught of life was in their eyes;—
Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets,
Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away;
And forms succeeded to their place
With less of gold in their array,
But shining with more natural grace,
And all could see the charming wands
Had past into more gifted hands.
Among these visions there was one,[3]
Surpassing fair, on which the sun,
That instant risen, a beam let fall,
Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled.
And reached at length the spot where all
Those great magicians stood assembled.
And as they turned their heads to view
The shining lustre, I could trace
The bright varieties it threw
On each uplifted studying face:[4]
While many a voice with loud acclaim
Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name
Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised
This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now—the sun had risen
From out the dungeon of old Night.—
Like the Apostle from his prison
Led by the Angel's hand of light;
And—as the fetters, when that ray
Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5]
So fled the clouds at touch of day!
Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6]
Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand,
To trace upon the dusky earth
Strange learned figures with his wand;
And oft he took the silver lute
His little page behind him bore,
And waked such music as, when mute,
Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on,
And forms and faces that from out
A depth of shadow mildly shone
Were in the soft air seen about.
Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed,
Yet all like living sisters seemed,
So close in every point resembling
Each other's beauties—from the eyes
Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling,
Yet soft as if suffused with sighs,
To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin,
Lovelily tapering, less and less,
Till by this very charm's excess,
Like virtue on the verge of sin,
It touched the bounds of ugliness.
Here lookt as when they lived the shades
Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids—
Such maids as should alone live on
In dreams thus when their charms are gone:
Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes
A painter for whole years might gaze,[7]
Nor find in all his pallet's dyes
One that could even approach their blaze!
Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one,
With her white fingers to the sun
Outspread as if to ask his ray
Whether it e'er had chanced to play
On lilies half so fair as they!
This self-pleased nymph was Vanity—
And by her side another smiled,
In form as beautiful as she,
But with that air subdued and mild,
That still reserve of purity,
Which is to beauty like the haze
Of evening to some sunny view,
Softening such charms as it displays
And veiling others in that hue,
Which fancy only can see thro'!
This phantom nymph, who could she be,
But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay
To weave his spells and still there past,
As in the lantern's shifting play
Group after group in close array,
Each fairer, grander, than the last.
But the great triumph of his power
Was yet to come:—gradual and slow,
(As all that is ordained to tower
Among the works of man must grow,)
The sacred vision stole to view,
In that half light, half shadow shown,
Which gives to even the gayest hue
A sobered, melancholy tone.
It was a vision of that last,[9]
Sorrowful night which Jesus past
With his disciples when he said
Mournfully to them—"I shall be
"Betrayed by one who here hath fed
"This night at the same board with me."
And tho' the Saviour in the dream
Spoke not these words, we saw them beam
Legibly in his eyes (so well
The great magician workt his spell),
And read in every thoughtful line
Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved,
Not angered to be thus deceived—
Celestial love requited ill
For all its care, yet loving still—
Deep, deep regret that there should fall
From man's deceit so foul a blight
Upon that parting hour—and all
His Spirit must have felt that night.
Who, soon to die for human-kind,
Thought only, mid his mortal pain,
How many a soul was left behind
For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene—alas!
That scene so bright so soon should pass
But pictured on the humid air,
Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10]
And storms came on, that, cold and rough,
Scattered its gentlest glories all—
As when the baffling winds blow off
The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,—
Till one by one the vision's beams
Faded away and soon it fled.
To join those other vanisht dreams
That now flit palely 'mong the dead,—
The shadows of those shades that go.
Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.—For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light shined in the prison … and his chains fell off from his hands."—Acts.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.—Correggio—Guido —Raphael, etc.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen. —Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story
Touches all hearts—for there we see thee.
The soul's corruption and its glory,
Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,—like demons shrined
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when by touch of Heaven set free,
Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY),
And covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—
Thence on thro' all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him
Whose bitter death-cup from above
Had yet this cordial round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last:—
Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert of all the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine
When risen from the dead first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had past away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given,
Even under God's own kindly hand,
Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face,
In all its touching light of tears,
Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears,
Hopeless—were he not taught to see
All hope in Him who pardoned thee!
No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumpht in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;
That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form;
That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues
Should in portraying thee grow warm;
That all—from the ideal, grand,
Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enameling touch
Of smooth CARLINO—should delight
In picturing her, "who loved so much,"
And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays
Of Genius and of Art to raise
A semblance of those weeping eyes—
A vision worthy of the sphere
Thy faith has earned thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,—
None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace,
CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face,
In those bright sculptured forms, more bright
With true expression's breathing light,
Than ever yet beneath the stroke
Of chisel into life awoke.
The one,[1] portraying what thou wert
In thy first grief,—while yet the flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming power;
And mingling earth's seductive grace
With heaven's subliming thoughts so well,
We doubt, while gazing, in which place
Such beauty was most formed to dwell!—
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence and tears
Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art
With half such speaking power express
The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness.
Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,
Even still, of all their youthful grace,
That loosened hair of which thy brow
Was once so proud,—neglected now!—
Those features even in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others given,
And those sunk eyes now lost to earth
But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine—
Tho' springing from a soul that feels
Deep worship of those works divine
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2]
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays[3]
Give thee with all the generous zeal
Such master spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.— Their Menage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.—Reverence with which the spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.—Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw
Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,
Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes
As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame,
This mean prostration before Fame;
This casting down beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be careered o'er as they please.
No—give triumphant Genius all
For which his loftiest wish can call:
If he be worshipt, let it be
For attributes, his noblest, first;
Not with that base idolatry
Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;—may want that glow
Of high romance which bards should know;
That holy homage which is felt
In treading where the great have dwelt;
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,
I fear, I feel, I have it not:—
For here at this still hour, to me
The charms of this delightful spot,
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget,
This narrow valley and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet,
The flitting to and fro of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden ere the startling words
Of man disturbed their orisons,
Those little, shadowy paths that wind
Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas here and there that ope
Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches
Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope
Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!—
All this, which—could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues
Of Genius can no more disguise
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play—
This scene which would have filled my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is;—
Of Love where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's bliss;
Of solitude secure and sweet.
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet.
Which while it shelters never chills
Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them like sequestered rills
Purer and fresher in their flow;
Of happy days that share their beams
'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;
Of tranquil nights that give in dreams
The moonlight of the morning's joy!—
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those gross mementoes near;
Those sullying truths that cross the track
Of each sweet thought and drive them back
Full into all the mire and strife
And vanities of that man's life,
Who more than all that e'er have glowed
With fancy's flame (and it was his,
In fullest warmth and radiance) showed
What an impostor Genius is;
How with that strong, mimetic art
Which forms its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels itself one throb it wakes;
How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path by mortals trod,
Itself as mean a worm the while
As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;
What gentle words and thoughts may fall
From its false lip, what zeal to bless,
While home, friends, kindred, country, all,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness;
How with the pencil hardly dry
From coloring up such scenes of love
And beauty as make young hearts sigh
And dream and think thro' heaven they rove,
They who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek nor know a joy above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast
Of their false tongues they want the most;
And while with freedom on their lips,
Sounding their timbrels, to set free
This bright world, laboring in the eclipse
Of priestcraft and of slavery,—
They may themselves be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made
To blossom in his smile or grow
Like stunted brushwood in his shade.
Out on the craft!—I'd rather be
One of those hinds that round me tread,
With just enough of sense to see
The noonday sun that's o'er his head,
Than thus with high-built genius curst,
That hath no heart for its foundation,
Be all at once that's brightest, worst,
Sublimest, meanest in creation!

CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.