Rembrandt
How slight, how vacuous all the moderns seem
By thy dark splendors! Lo, these works of thine
Have bridged oblivion, and thy name entwine
With fame eterne,—Lord of the brush supreme!
Others but limned the surface,—thy demesne—
The inviolate sanctum of the inner shrine:
Beneath the form thou saw'st the soul divine,
O painter of the Spirit's brooding Dream.
Artist beloved! who dawned so gloriously,
Thy star in sorrow set,—thy evening here
Was dimmed—neglect and penury thy part;
But Glory, bending, brings her palms to thee,
Poet, who in the lowliest human heart
Discerned the pathos and divined the tear.
By thy dark splendors! Lo, these works of thine
Have bridged oblivion, and thy name entwine
With fame eterne,—Lord of the brush supreme!
Others but limned the surface,—thy demesne—
The inviolate sanctum of the inner shrine:
Beneath the form thou saw'st the soul divine,
O painter of the Spirit's brooding Dream.
Artist beloved! who dawned so gloriously,
Thy star in sorrow set,—thy evening here
Was dimmed—neglect and penury thy part;
But Glory, bending, brings her palms to thee,
Poet, who in the lowliest human heart
Discerned the pathos and divined the tear.
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