'Twas daylight now-the sun had ris'n,
" "Tis o'er-the dawn of our deliverance breaks! "Up from his sleep of centuries awakes "The Genius of the Old Republic, free As first he stood in chainless majesty,
• And sends his voice through ages yet to come, Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"
Fragment of a Dream.-The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.The Beginnings of the Art.-Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.Improvements under Giotto, &c.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.- Studie! by all the great Art, sts who followed him-Leo nardo da Vinci, wuh whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.-His female Heads all like each other.-Triangular Faces.-Portraits of Mona Lisa, &c.-Picture of Vanity and Modesty.-His chef-d'œuvre, the Last SupperFaded and almost effaced.
FILL'D with the wonders I had seen,
In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, I felt the veil of sleep, serene, Come o'er the mem'ry of each scene,
As twilight o'er the landscape falls. Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, But such as suits a poet's rest- That sort of thin, transparent sleep,
Through which his day-dreams shine the best Methought upon a plain I stood,
Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, With strange, mirac'lous power endu'd,
Were coming, each in turn, to shed
His arts' illusions o'er the sight, And call up miracles of light. The sky above this lonely place,
Was of that cold, uncertain hue, The canvass wears, ere, warm'd apace, Its bright creation dawns to view
But soon a glimmer from the east Proclaim'd the first enchantments nigh;* And as the feeble light increas'd,
Strange figures mov'd across the sky, With golden glories deck'd, and streaks
Of gold among their garments' dyes ;† And life's resemblance ting'd their cheeks,
But nought of life was in their eyes;- Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets But soon these figures pass'd away;
And forms succeeded to their place, With less of gold in their array,
But shining with more natural grace, And all could see the charming wands Had pass'd into more gifted hands.‡
Among these visions there was one,§ Surpassing fair, on which the sun, That instant ris'n, a beam let fall,
Which through the dusky twilight trembled, And reach'd at length, the spot where all Those great magicians stood assembled And as they turn'd their heads, to view The shining lustre, I could trace
The bright varieties it threw
On each uplifted studying face ;||
While many a voice with loud acclaim, Call'd forth, "Masaccio" as the name Of him, the Enchanter, who had rais'd This miracle, on which all gaz'd.
The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.
Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornari. na, and by Rubens not unfrequently in g.ories and flames. t Cimabue, Giotto, &c.
The works of Masaccio.-For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynold's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Flo
All the groft artists studied and many of them borrowed from
From out the dungeon of old Night,Like the Apostle, from his prison
Led by the Angel's hand of light; And as the fetters, when that ray Of glory reach'd them, dropp'd away,¶ So fled the clouds at touch of day! Just then, a bearded sage came forth, Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand To trace upon the dusky earth
Strange learned figures with his wand; tt And oft he took the s.lver 1 te
His little page behind him. bore, And wak'd such music as, when mate, Left in the soul a thirst for more! Meanwhile, his potent spells went on, And forms and faces, that from out A depth of shadow mildly shone,
Were in the soft air seen about. Though thick as midnight stars they beam'd. Yet all like living sisters seem'd, So close, in every point, resembling Each other's beauties-from the eyes Lucid as if through crystal trembling, Yet soft as if suffus'd with sighs,
To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, Lovely tapering, less and less,
Till, by this very charm's excess, Like virtue on the verge of sin,
It touch'd the bounds of ugliness.
Here look'd as when they liv'd the shades Of some of Arno's dark-ey'd maids-
Such maids as should alone live on,
In dreams thus, when their charms are gone. Some Mona Lisa, on whose eyes
A painter for whole years might gaze,‡‡ Nor find in all his pallet's dyes,
One that could even approach their blaze Here float two spirit shapes,§§ the one, With her white fingers to the sun Outspread, as if to ask his ray Whether it e'er had chanc'd to play On lilies half so fair as they! This self-pleas'd nymph, was Vanity- And by her side another smil'd, In form as beautiful as she, But with that air, subdu'd and mild, That still reserve of purity, Which is to beauty like the haze Of ev'ning to some sunny view, Soft'ning such charms as it displays, And veiling others in that hue, Which fancy only can see through! This phantom nymph, who could she be, But the bright Spirit, Modesty ?
Long did the learn'd enchanter stay To weave his spells, and still there pass'd, As in the lantern's shifting play. Group after group in close array, Each fairer, grander, than the last But the great triumph of his pow'r
Was yet to come :-gradual and slow, (As all that is ordain'd to tow'r,
Among the works of man must grow,) The sacred vision stole to view,
In that half light, half shadow shown,
Which gives to ev'n the gayest hue, A sober'd, melancholy tone. It was a vision of that last,* Sorrowful night which Jesus pass'd With his disciples, when he said
Mournfully to them-" I shall be "Betray'd by one, who here hath fed
"This night at the same board with me." And though the Saviour, in the dream Spoke not these words, we saw them beam Legibly in his eyes (so well
The great magician work'd his spell,) And read in every thoughtful line Imprinted on that brow divine,
The meek, the tender nature, griev'd, Not anger'd, to be thus deceived- Celestial love requited ill
For all its care, yet loving still- Deep, deep regret that there should tall From man's deceit so foul a blight Upon that parting hour-and all
His Spirit must have felt that night, Who, soon to die for human-kind,
Thought only, 'mid his mortal pain, How many a soul was left behind
For whom he died that death in vain!
Such was the heavenly scene-alas, That scene so bright so soon should pass! But pictur'd on the humid air, Its tints, ere long, grew languid there ;† And storms came on, that, cold and rough, Scatter'd its gentlest glories all— As when the baffling winds.blow off
The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,Till, one by one, the vision's beams
Faded away, and soon it fled, To join those other vanish'd dreams That now flit palely 'mong the dead,- The shadows of those shades, that go, Around Oblivion's lake, below!
Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY,)
And, cov'ring in their precics fold Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed s ch tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years! Thence on, through all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,-Him, Whose bitter death-cup from above
Had yet this cordial round the brim, That woman's faith and love stood fast And fearless by Him to the last :- fill, oh, blest boon for truth like thine! Thou wert, of all, the chosen one, Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan. See L'Histoire de la Peinture Italie, liv ill. chap. 45. The writer of that interesting work (to whom I take this opportunity of offering my acknowledgments, for the copy he sent me a year since from Rome,) will see I have profited by Home of his observations on this celebrated picture.
Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin,
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, Had pass'd away its mortal shroud, And make that bright revealment known To hearts, less trusting than thy own. All is affecting, cheering, grand; The kindliest record ever giv'n, Ev'n under God's own kindly hand, Of what Repentance wins from Heav'n
No wonder, MARY, that thy face, In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears, Hopeless--were he nor taught to see All hope in Him, who pardon'd thee! No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumph'd in the pow'r Of keeping thee all lovely still
Ev'n in thy sorrow's bitt'rest hour; That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form; That GUIDO's pale, unearthly hues
Should, in portraying thee, grow warm. That all-from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth CARLINO-should delight In pict'ring her, who "lov'd so much," And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
But, MARY, 'mong these bold essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes- A vision, worthy of the sphere Thy faith has earn'd thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,- None e'er hath match'd, in grief or grace, CANOVA's day-dream of thy face,
In those bright sculptur'd forms, more brigh With true expression's breathing light, Than ever yet, beneath the stroke Of chisel, into life awoke.
The one, portraying what thou wert In thy first grief,-while yet the flow'r Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming pow'r; And mingling earth's seductive grace With heav'n's subliming thoughts so well, We doubt, while gazing, in which place Such beauty was most form'd to dwell! The other, as thou look'dst, when years Of fasting, penitence, and tears Had worn thy frame;-and ne'er did Art With half such speaking pow'r express The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness. Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, Ev'n still, of all their youthful grace, That loosen'd hair, of which thy brow Was once so proud,-neglected now!— Those features, ev'n in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others giv'n, And those sunk eyes, now lost to earth, But, to the last, still full of heav'n!
Wonderful artist! praise, like mineThough springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light revealsHow veak 'tis to the words that came From 'm, thy peer in art and fame,§ Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his ling'ring hand would steal
would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.
This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in con tradiction to very high authority, that expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Semar.va, at Paris. § Chanrrey
O'er every gra he taper's rays,* Give thee, with all the gen'rous zeal Such master-spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's praise!
Ivert to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.- Their Menage-Its Grossness.-Claude Anet.-Reverence with which the Spot is now visited.-Absurdity of this blind Devotios. to Fame.- Feelings excitea by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.-Impostures of men of Genius.-Their power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Inde- pendence, &c.
STRANGE power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes As dazzle ev'n the steadiest eyes
'Tis worse than weak-'tis wrong, 'tis shame, This mean prostration before Fame; This casting down, beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be career'd o'er, as they please. No-give triumphant Genius all For which his loftiest wish can call: If he be worshipp'd let it be
For attributes, his noblest, first; Not with that base idolatry,
Which sanctifies his last and worst.
I may be cold;-may want that glow
Of high romance, which bards should know; That holy homage, which is felt
In treading where the great have dwelt ; This rev'rence, whatsoe'er it be,
I fear, I feel. I have it not :- For here, at this still hour, to me
The charms of this delightful spot; Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart wouid fain forget; This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murm'ring rivulet; The flitting, to and fro, of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden, ere the startling words
Of Man disturb'd their orisons; Those little, shadowy paths, that wind Up the hill-side, with fruit-tree's lin❜d, And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope
Even through the shade of sadness catches!- All this, which-could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise,
• Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, ty he light of a small candle.
Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play- This scene, which would have fill'd my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is; Of Love, where self hath only part,
As echoing back another bliss; Of solitude, secure and sweet, Beneath whose shade the virtues meet; Which, while it shelters, never chills
Our sympathies with human woe, But keeps them, like sequester'd rills, Purer and fresher in their flow; Of happy days, that share their beams
'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ; Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams, The moonlight of the morning's joy!- All this my heart could dwell on here, But for those gross memento's near; Those sullying truths, that cross the track Of each sweet thought, and drive them back Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life, Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd With Fancy's flame (and it was his, In fullest warmth and radiance) show'd What an impostor Genius is; How, with that strong, mimetic art, Which forms its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart. Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path, by mortals trod. Itself as mean a worm, the while,
As crawls at midnight o'er the sod, What gentle words and thoughts may fall From its false lip, what zeal to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all Lie waste beneath its selfishness: How, with the pencil hardly dry
From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,
And dream, and think through heav'n they ro They, who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charis Nor seek, nor know a joy, apote
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!
How all, in short, that makes the boast Of their false tongues, they want the most, And, while with freedom on their lips, Sounding their trimbrels, to set free This bright world, labouring in the eclipse Of priestcraft, and of slavery,- They may, themselves, be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made
To blossom in his smile, or grow,
Like stunted brushwood, in his shade. Out on the craft!-I'd rather be
One of those hinds, that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see
The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus, with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!
ALCIPHRON:
Where Wisdom flings not joy away- As Pallas in the stream, they say, Once flung her flute-but smiling owns hat woman's lip can send forth. to es Worth all the music of those spheres So many dream of, but none hears; Where Virtue's self puts on so well
Her sister Pleasure's smile, that, loth From either nymph apart to dwell,
We finish by embracing both.
Yes, such the place of bliss, I own, From all whose charms I just have flown; And even while thus to thee I write,
And by the Nile's dark flood recline, Fondly, in thought, I wing my flight Back to those groves and gardens bright, And often think, by this sweet light,
How lovelily they all must shine; Can see that graceful temple throw
Down the green slope its lengthened shade, While, on the marble steps below,
There sits some fair Athenian maid, Over some favourite volume bending; And, by her side, a youthful sage Holds back the ringlets that, descending, Would eise o'ershadow all the page.
But hence such thoughts!-nor let me grieve O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, As the bird quits awhile its nest To come again with livelier zest.
And now to tell thee-what I fear Thou'lt gravely smile at-why I'm here. Though through my life's short, sunny dream, I've floated without pain or care, Like a light leaf, down pleasure's stream, Caught in each sparkling eddy there; Though never Mirth awaked a strain That my heart echoed not again; Yet have I felt, when even most gay,
Sad thoughts-I knew not whence or whySuddenly o'er my spirit fly,
Like clouds, that, ere we've time to say
"How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. Sometimes so vague, so undefin'd, Were these strange dark'nings of my mindWhile nought but joy around me beam'd
So causelessly they've come and flown, That not of life or earth they seem'd,
But shadows from some world unknown. More oft, however, 'twas the thought
How soon that scene, with all its play Of life and gladness, must decay- Those lips I prest, the hands I caught- Myself-the crowd that mirth had brought Around me-swept like weeds away!
This thought it was that came to shed O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; And, close as shade with sunshine, wed Its sadness with my happiest joys. Oh, but for this disheart'ning voice, Stealing amid our mirth to say That all, in which we most rejoice,
Ere night may be the earth-worm's prey; But for this bitter-only this
Full as the world is brimm'd with bliss, And capable as feels my soul
Of draining to its dregs the whole,
I should turn earth to heav'n, and be,
If bliss made Gods, a Deity!
Thou know'st that night-the very last That 'mong my Garden friends I pass'd- When the School held its feast of mirth To celebrate our founder's birth, And all that He in dreams but saw When he set Pleasure on the throne Of this bright world, and wrote her law In human hearts, was felt and known-
Not in unreal dreams, but true Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew— By hear's and bosoms, that each felt Isely the realm wi.ere Pleasure awelt.
That night, when all our mirth was o'er, The minstrels silent, and the feet Of the young maidens heard no more- So stilly was the time, so sweet, And such a calm came o'er that scene, Where life and revel late had been- Lone as the quiet of some bay, From which the sea hath ebb'd away- That still I linger'd, lost in thought, Gazing upon the stars of night, Sad and intent, as if I sought
Some mournful secret in their light; And ask'd them, 'mid that silence, why Man, glorious man, alone must die, While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on through all eternity.
That night thou haply may'st forget Its loveliness-but 'twas a night To make earth's meanest slave regret Leaving a world so soft and bright. On one side, in the dark blue sky, Lonely and radiant, was the eye Of Jove himself, while, on the other, 'Mong stars that came out one by one, The young moon-like the Roman mother Among her living jewels-shone. "Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought, "Pure and eternal as they are,
"There could to earth some power be brought, "Some charm, with their own essence fraught, "To make man deathless as a star; "And open to his vast desires
"A course, as boundless and sublime "As that which waits those comet-fires,
"That burn and roam throughout all time!"
While thoughts like these absorb'd my mind, That weariness which earthly bliss, However sweet, still leaves behind,
As if to show how earthly 'tis, Came lulling o'er me, and I laid
My limbs at that fair statue's base- That miracle, which Art hath made
Of all the choice of Nature's grace- To which so oft I've knelt and sworn, That, could a living maid like her Unto this wondering world be born, I would, myself, turn worshipper. Sleep came then o'er me-and I seem'd To be transported far away To a bleak desert plain, where gleam'd One single, melancholy ray, Throughout that darkness dimly shed From a small taper in the hand Of one, who, pale as are the dead, Before me took his spectral stand, And said, while, awfully, a smile
Came o'er the wanness of his cheek"Go, and beside the sacred Nile "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"
Soon as he spoke these words, the hue Of death o'er all his features grew, Like the pale morning, when o'er night She gains the victory, full of light; While the small torch he held became A glory in his hand, whose flame Brighten'd the desert suddenly,
Even to the far horizon's line- Along whose level I could see
Gardens and groves, that seem'd to shine, As if then o'er them freshly play'd
A vernal rainbow's rich cascade; And music floated every where, Circling, as 'twere itself the air,
And spirits, on whose wings the hue Of heaven still linger'd, round me flew, Till from all sides such splendours broke, That, with the excess of light, I woke !
Such was my dream;-and, I confess,
Though none of all our creedless School E'er conn'd, believ'd, or reverenc'd less The fables of the priest-led fool, Who tells us of a soul, a mind, Separate and pure, within us shrin'd, Which is to live-ah, hope too bright! For ever in yon fields of light; Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes
Of Gods are on him-as if, blest And blooming in their own blue skies, The eternal Gods were not too wise
To let weak man disturb their rest!- Though thinking of such creeds as thou And all our Garden sages think, Yet is there something, I allow,
In dreams like this-a sort of link With worlds unseen, which, from the hour I first could lisp my thoughts till now, Hach master'd me with spell-like power.
And who can tell, as we're combin'd Of various atoms-some refin'd, Like those that scintillate and play In the fix'd stars-some, gross as they That frown in clouds or sleep in clay- Who can be sure, but 'tis the best
And brightest atoms of our frame, Those most akin to stellar flame, That shine out thus, when we're at rest Ev'n as the stars themselves, whose lig Comes out but in the silent night. Or is it that there lurks, indeed, Some truth in Man's prevailing cre And that our Guardians, from on hi
Come, in that pause from toil am、、a, To put the senses' curtain by,
And on the wakeful soul look i
Vain thought-but yet, howe' be, Dreams, more than once, hath prov'd to me Oracles, truer far than Oak,
Or Dove, or Tripod, ever ske.
And 'twas the words-thou'lt hear and smileThe words that phantom seem'd to speak"Go, and beside the sacred Nile
"You'll find the Eternal Life you seek-" That, haunting me by night, by day,
At length, as with the unseen hand
Of Fate itself, urg'd me away
From Athens to this Holy Land;
Where, 'mong the secrets, still untaught, The myst'ries that, as yet, nor sun
Nor eye hath reach'd-oh, blessed thought!-- May sleep this everlasting one.
Farewell-when to our Garden friends Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends The gayest of their school thus far, Wandering beneath Canopus' star, Tell them that, wander where he will, Or, how e'er they now condemn His vague and vain pursuit, he still
Is worthy of the School and them;Still, all their own-nor e'er forgets,
Ev'n while his heart and soul pursue Th' Eternal Light which never sets,
The many meteor jovs that do,
But seeks them, hails them with delight, Where'er they meet his longing sight. And, if his life must wane away, Like other lives, at least the day, The hour it lasts shall, like a fire
With incense fed, in sweets expire.
The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak
From subterranean temples, those I seek Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty Lives And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives Insteal of honouring Isis in those rites
At Coptos held, I hail her, when she lights Her first young crescent on the holy stream- When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam, And number o'er the nights she hath to run, Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. While o'er some mystic leaf, that dimly lends A clue into past times, the student bends, And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread Back through the shadowy knowledge of the dead→→ The only skill, alas, I yet can claim
Lies in deciphering some new lov'd-one's name- Some gentle missive, hinting time and place,
In language, soft as Memphian reed can trace.
And where-oh where's the heart that could withd The unnumber'd witcheries of this sun-born land, Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurl'd, And Love hath temples ancient as the world! Where mystery, like the veil by Beauty worn, Hides but to win, and shades but to adorn; Where that luxurious melancholy, born Of passion and of genius, sheds a gloom Making joy holy;-where the bower and tomo Stand side by side, and Pleasure learns from Death The instant value of each moment's breath
Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream This lovely land now looks!-the glorious stream, That late, between its banks, was seen to glide 'Mong shrines and marble cities, on each side Glitt'ring like jewels strung along a chain, Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain And valley, like a giant from his bed Rising with outstretch'd limbs, hath grandly spread; While far as sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever bless'd our sphere, Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes, And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty Gods, and pyramids, whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower!
Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy, that make One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion, ever moves and lives. Here, up the steps of temples from the wave Ascending, in procession slow and grave, Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; While there, rich barks-fresh from those sunny tracts Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts- Glide, with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains Of gold, wash'd down by Abyssinian rains. Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims, on their way To Saïs or Bubastus, among beds
Of lotus flowers, that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and there, as in a bowel, Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour;
Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, That leaf, from which its waters drink most sweet- While haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias, many a prank
Is played in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,* whose chain
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