Classic Poem

SAINT Luke beheld a phantom grey—
“Arise!—go forth!—make no delay,
To paint the world's divinest face;
Henceforth, assisted by thy hand,
Glad eyes from every Christian land
God's virgin-mother's form shall trace.”

He wakens in the white dawn clear,
Still sounds that strange voice in his ear;
He starts from bed, and quickly flies,
Flings round his ample cloak, and bears
The magic pencil's silken hairs,
The palette with its thousand dyes.

He wanders on with silent tread,
Till reaching Mary's humble shed,
He softly striketh at the door;
He greets her with the blesséd name,
She opening greets him with the same,
And many, many kind words more.

“O Virgin, wouldst thou deign impart
Thy favour to my humble art,
That art which God permits me use;
How highly blesséd it would be,
If I thy holy face could see
Reflected in its mimic hues.”

Thereat she modestly replies:
“Already hast thou blest mine eyes
With that sweet image of my Son;
He smiles upon me yet, although,
To heaven departing long ago,
His throne and kingdom he hath won.

“But I am but a lowly maid,
Whose earthly dress begins to fade,
Which even in youth I did despise.
That eye that looks through boundless space
Ne'er saw the mirror's flattering face
Reflect my form or downcast eyes.”

“The blossoms that to H IM were dear
Fade not with ev'ry flying year;
Most gracious woman earth doth hold,
Alone, of all the human race,
Thou dost not see thy virgin face,
But still let other eyes behold.

“Bethink thee of the trustful eyes,
Long after thou hast reached the skies,
That on thy pictured form shall gaze.
The old and young of every age,
The lisping child, the anxious sage,
Shall seek thy prayers, and speak thy praise!”

“Have I so great a guerdon won?
And yet—alas!—my dearest Son
I could not of his cross relieve;
To H IM who rules the land and sea
I humbly bow the reverent knee,
In fervent prayer, both morn and eve.”

“O Virgin, make no more delay,
H E sent to me a phantom grey,
Which bade me paint thy virgin face,
That so, assisted by this hand,
Glad eyes from every Christian land
God's virgin mother's form may trace.”

“Well, then, your ordered task pursue,
And, if thou hast the power, renew
The heavenly joy my heart possessed;
Bring back, bring back, that happy time
When my dear Son, in life's young prime,
Reposed upon my grateful breast!”

Saint Luke at once his pencil tries,
Which o'er the vacant tablet flies,
With many a stroke so fine and light;
A brighter light its radiance flings,
For through the chamber angels' wings
Move to and fro in wondering flight.

Him serves that wondering angel band,
Some guide the pencil in his hand,
And some the tender colours blend
And soon again on Mary's breast
The infant Saviour seems to rest,
To whom all hearts their prayers may send.

The sketch had been completely made,
But for the night's disturbing shade,
He lays the pencil down, and then
He said, “The end requires delay;
When all is dry, some other day,
I hither shall return again.”

And now a few swift days have flown,
When Luke once more proceeds alone,
And seeks that humble cottage door.
But in the place of that sweet voice,
That lately made his heart rejoice,
Strange words the passing breezes bore.

The virgin Mother slumbering lay,
Like dewy flowers at close of day;
But now on angel's hands she flies,
And in a blaze of glorious light,
Before the rapt apostle's sight,
Is borne amid the azure skies!

Amazed and glad he looks around,
But, out of reach of sight or sound,
The blesséd mother heaven has gained;
And he,—his reverent awe is such,
Cannot the wondrous picture touch,
And so unfinished it remained.

With pious bliss the heart is blest,
That sweet face falls on every breast,
And leaves a holy joy behind;
And pilgrims come from every land,
Before those downcast eyes to stand,
And strength and grace in gazing find.

And many thousand copies went
Through all the Christian continent,
With slowly lessening truth and grace;
And thus for many centuries,
The reverent eye of love but sees
This shadow of our Lady's face.

At length came down Saint Raphael,
The heavenly face no words can tell
Was mirrored in his eyes alone;
For in the highest heaven serene
Those eyes the holy one had seen
Beside God's everlasting throne.

His pencil, dipped in heavenly hues,
The fading lineaments renews;
The pale lip glows, the dim eye burns:
He finishes what Luke begun,
Then, pleased at what his hand had done,
The angel youth to heaven returns.