Classic Poem

This pictured work, with ancient graces fraught,
Or so they say, Albertinelli wrought.
He who that touching piece achieved, where meet
The sisters twain, in visitation sweet;
Of which the Tuscan city, 'mid her crowd
Of miracles, e'en yet is justly proud.

Oh, matchless line of years, whose generous strife
Reared the reviving arts to perfect life:
Then, Petrarch's native lay refined on love;
Then, Angelo the impetuous chisel drove;
Then, oracles that stirred young Raphael's breast
Spoke forth in colours, clear as words, exprest.

Thou too, the pencil's scarce less gifted seer,
Fair is the dream thy hand interprets here:
How sweet you Infant Christ's down-beaming smile
On bright Saint John, who lifts his own the while:

That bliss of young maternity how sweet,
Where mildly mingling Saint and Mother meet:
Nay, more than mother's rapture, to behold
Her Saviour-Son, by prophet-bards foretold.

Or if adoring meekness e'er had shrine
In human face, fond Katharine, 'tis in thine:
In that one present joy of all possest,
Heedless of future, and by past unprest.

But hers, who stands anear that elder boy,
Margaret's, I ween, is no untroubled joy;
In her, methinks, the painter's hand hath sought
Meanings to plant of more than common thought —
A look, as if that calm, yet clouded eye
Had glimpsed the minglings of futurity;
And 'mid the glories of each final doom,
Foresaw, not less, the sorrows first to come.