XXXI.
Behold the M ASTERPIECE ,—as not with hands
Of human weakness wrought! how fiercely cold
That boy, divested of his nature, stands,
Maddening!—his eye in wild possession roll'd!
How shrinks the father from his stony hold!
What sorrow in the kneeling sister's eye
Turns on the group of more than mortal mould,
That o'er him all their words of wonder try,
All vain, all vanquish'd, he must writhe, and waste, and die.
XXXII.
The hope of hopes is there! but to the mount
Scarce dare their holy hands or eye-balls turn.
For on its brow, amid a fiery fount,
H E floats, by his instinctive virtue borne,
H E for whose wounds the tribes of earth shall mourn,
Transfigured, in the majesty divine.
Jerusalem! that glory was thy scorn,
Thy king was made a mockery and a sign,
A thousand years!—His blood is still on thee and thine!
XXXIII.
Resplendent Titian! what a host of thoughts,
What memories of stars and midnight moons,
And long hours pass'd beneath the emerald vaults
Of forests, and the sweet eve's thousand tunes,
When the breeze rushes through the vine-festoons,
Show'ring their dew-drops; are concentred here!
And forms of prince and knight in proud saloons,
And dames with dark Italian eyes, that ne'er
Knew sorrow, or but wept the heart's bewitching tear.
XXXIV.
Prometheus of the pencil! life and light
Burst on the canvass from thy mighty hand,
All hues sublime that ever dazzled sight
Where tempests die on heaven; or ever waned
On hills, the evening's azure thrones, or stain'd
Ruby or beryl in their Indian cell,
Or glanced from gem-dropt wing, or blossom vein'd,
Or tinged in ocean-caves the radiant shell,
All, at thy sceptre's wave, from all their fountains swell.
XXXV.
There shines thy trophy! a delicious maze
Of forest paths luxuriant, where the sun
Sinks, like a far-off city in a blaze,
In purple sheathing trunk and umbrage dun.
But there a fearful vengeance has begun!
The sword of wrath is in the victim's brain,
The Bigot's race of blood in blood is run.
He falls—his eye-ball writhes with mortal pain,
Yet flashes fiery pride. He struggles,—faints,—he's slain.
XXXVI.
But lo! the East is deepening; and the shade
Floats in grey softness down the gorgeous Hall,
Veiling the crimson cheek and glossy braid;
And wreathing in its slow and sweeping pall
Mirror, and bust, and Parian capital.
Silence is throned,—in distance dies the tread,—
And in the gloom its kings and champions all,
Sitting with truncheon'd hand and hoary head,
Seem spirits from the grave, a council of the dead!
XXXVII.
But eve still glows on every shaft and plinth,
And painted roof and sculptured architrave
In the rich halls below; that Labyrinth,—
Whose people are the gods of sky and wave,
Idols! that Greece to the world's worship gave,
The madness, dream, delight of sterner days,
Till Greece was but a name—a fetter'd slave.
Here is their shrine;—and the sweet sun delays,
As on their golden domes of old he loved to gaze.
XXXVIII.
Are they but stone?—Ay, many an age the wave
Has beat on beds as precious, and the sheep
Has nibbled the wild vine-shoots round the cave
Where their white beauty slept, and still might sleep,
Had not the master-chisel plunging deep
Awoke the living image from the stone.
Was their Creator born to swell the heap
Of earth's decay,—be measured by a moon?
The soul's supremacy decrees the soul its throne!
XXXIX.
Tombs are deceivers—What a mass of mind
Were church-yards,—if the chambers of the brain
Dungeon'd the spirit! Sceptic, grasp the wind,
Rule the outgoings of the storm, then chain
The fiery thought that neither mount nor main,
Not earth, heaven, time, nor thou, Eternity,
With thy dark-frowning grandeur, can restrain.
There lies the house of bondage, let it lie!
The ransom'd slave's gone forth—his freedom was to die.
XL.
I have descended to the ancient vault,
And held communion with the remnants there.
What saw I then? I saw the velvet rot;
I saw the massive brass, like cobwebs, tear;
Shewing within its rents a shape of fear,
A wreck of man; from which the reptile stole
Scared by the light.—Decaying slumberer,
The thunders on thine ear unheard might roll!
Is this pale ruin the tomb, the temple of the soul!
Behold the M ASTERPIECE ,—as not with hands
Of human weakness wrought! how fiercely cold
That boy, divested of his nature, stands,
Maddening!—his eye in wild possession roll'd!
How shrinks the father from his stony hold!
What sorrow in the kneeling sister's eye
Turns on the group of more than mortal mould,
That o'er him all their words of wonder try,
All vain, all vanquish'd, he must writhe, and waste, and die.
XXXII.
The hope of hopes is there! but to the mount
Scarce dare their holy hands or eye-balls turn.
For on its brow, amid a fiery fount,
H E floats, by his instinctive virtue borne,
H E for whose wounds the tribes of earth shall mourn,
Transfigured, in the majesty divine.
Jerusalem! that glory was thy scorn,
Thy king was made a mockery and a sign,
A thousand years!—His blood is still on thee and thine!
XXXIII.
Resplendent Titian! what a host of thoughts,
What memories of stars and midnight moons,
And long hours pass'd beneath the emerald vaults
Of forests, and the sweet eve's thousand tunes,
When the breeze rushes through the vine-festoons,
Show'ring their dew-drops; are concentred here!
And forms of prince and knight in proud saloons,
And dames with dark Italian eyes, that ne'er
Knew sorrow, or but wept the heart's bewitching tear.
XXXIV.
Prometheus of the pencil! life and light
Burst on the canvass from thy mighty hand,
All hues sublime that ever dazzled sight
Where tempests die on heaven; or ever waned
On hills, the evening's azure thrones, or stain'd
Ruby or beryl in their Indian cell,
Or glanced from gem-dropt wing, or blossom vein'd,
Or tinged in ocean-caves the radiant shell,
All, at thy sceptre's wave, from all their fountains swell.
XXXV.
There shines thy trophy! a delicious maze
Of forest paths luxuriant, where the sun
Sinks, like a far-off city in a blaze,
In purple sheathing trunk and umbrage dun.
But there a fearful vengeance has begun!
The sword of wrath is in the victim's brain,
The Bigot's race of blood in blood is run.
He falls—his eye-ball writhes with mortal pain,
Yet flashes fiery pride. He struggles,—faints,—he's slain.
XXXVI.
But lo! the East is deepening; and the shade
Floats in grey softness down the gorgeous Hall,
Veiling the crimson cheek and glossy braid;
And wreathing in its slow and sweeping pall
Mirror, and bust, and Parian capital.
Silence is throned,—in distance dies the tread,—
And in the gloom its kings and champions all,
Sitting with truncheon'd hand and hoary head,
Seem spirits from the grave, a council of the dead!
XXXVII.
But eve still glows on every shaft and plinth,
And painted roof and sculptured architrave
In the rich halls below; that Labyrinth,—
Whose people are the gods of sky and wave,
Idols! that Greece to the world's worship gave,
The madness, dream, delight of sterner days,
Till Greece was but a name—a fetter'd slave.
Here is their shrine;—and the sweet sun delays,
As on their golden domes of old he loved to gaze.
XXXVIII.
Are they but stone?—Ay, many an age the wave
Has beat on beds as precious, and the sheep
Has nibbled the wild vine-shoots round the cave
Where their white beauty slept, and still might sleep,
Had not the master-chisel plunging deep
Awoke the living image from the stone.
Was their Creator born to swell the heap
Of earth's decay,—be measured by a moon?
The soul's supremacy decrees the soul its throne!
XXXIX.
Tombs are deceivers—What a mass of mind
Were church-yards,—if the chambers of the brain
Dungeon'd the spirit! Sceptic, grasp the wind,
Rule the outgoings of the storm, then chain
The fiery thought that neither mount nor main,
Not earth, heaven, time, nor thou, Eternity,
With thy dark-frowning grandeur, can restrain.
There lies the house of bondage, let it lie!
The ransom'd slave's gone forth—his freedom was to die.
XL.
I have descended to the ancient vault,
And held communion with the remnants there.
What saw I then? I saw the velvet rot;
I saw the massive brass, like cobwebs, tear;
Shewing within its rents a shape of fear,
A wreck of man; from which the reptile stole
Scared by the light.—Decaying slumberer,
The thunders on thine ear unheard might roll!
Is this pale ruin the tomb, the temple of the soul!