XL.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE.

BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care

Due to the day's unfinished task; of pen
Or book regardless, and of that fair scene
In Nature's prodigality displayed
Before my window, oftentimes and long
I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam
Of beauty never ceases to enrich

The common light; whose stillness charms the air,
Or seems to charm it, into like repose;
Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear,
Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits,
With emblematic purity attired

In a white vest, white as her marble neck
Is, and the pillar of the throat would be
But for the shadow by the drooping chin
Cast into that recess,
the tender shade.
The shade and light, both there and everywhere,
And through the very atmosphere she breathes,
Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill
That might from nature have been learnt in the
hour

When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread
Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er
Thou be, that, kindling with a poet's soul,

Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft

The treasure,

what mine eyes behold see thou, Even though the Atlantic Ocean roll between.

A silver line, that runs from brow to crown And in the middle parts the braided hair, Just serves to show how delicate a soil The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their color emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer's voiceless service; but now, seeking naught And shunning naught, their own peculiar life Of motion they renounce, and with the head Partake its inclination towards earth In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness.

Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene,

Has but approached the gates of womanhood, Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere. Will not be found.

Her right hand, as it lies

Across the slender wrist of the left arm
Upon her lap reposing, holds - but mark
How slackly, for the absent mind permits
No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, joined.
As in a posy, with a few pale ears

Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped
And in their common birthplace sheltered it
Till they were plucked together; a blue flower
Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed;
But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows,
(Her Father told her so,) in youth's gay dawn
Her Mother's favorite; and the orphan Girl,
In her own dawn, a dawn less gay and bright,
Loves it, while there in solitary peace
She sits, for that departed Mother's sake.
- Not from a source less sacred is derived
(Surely I do not err) that pensive air
Of calm abstraction through the face diffused
And the whole person.

Words have something told

More than the pencil can, and verily

More than is needed, but the precious Art

Forgives their interference,

Art divine,

That both creates and fixes, in despite

Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.

Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! That posture, and the look of filial love

Thinking of past and gone, with what is left
Dearly united, might be swept away
From this fair Portrait's fleshy Archetype,
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak
Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored
To their lost place, or meet in harmony
So exquisite; but here do they abide,
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art
Godlike, a humble branch of the divine,
In visible quest of immortality,

Stretched forth with trembling hope?-In every realm,

From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains,
Thousands, in each variety of tongue

That Europe knows, would echo this appeal
One above all, a Monk who waits on God
In the magnific Convent built of yore
To sanctify the Escurial palace. He-
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room,
A British Painter (eminent for truth

-

In character, and depth of feeling, shown
By labors that have touched the hearts of kings,
And are endeared to simple cottagers) –
Came, in that service, to a glorious work,
Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first
The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand,
Graced the Refectory: and there, while both
Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece,
The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear
Breathed out these words: - "Here daily do
we sit,

Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here,
Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times,
And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed,
Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze
Upon this solemn Company, unmoved
By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years,
Until I cannot but believe that they -

They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows."

So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which by the visitation was disturbed.

But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well, My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!*

1834.

* The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. It need scarcely be added that Wilkie is the painter alluded to.