PICTOR IGNOTUS. [FLORENCE, 15-.] I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's To outburst on your night with all my gift Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to Heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,— O Human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Of going-I, in each new picture,—forth, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from its event, Till it reached home, where learned Age should greet My face, and Youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!— Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to Heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend,— The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear! But a voice changed it! Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels thro' a door Of some strange House of Idols at its rites; This world seemed not the world it was before! Mixed with my loving trusting ones there trooped Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Tho' I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me.. enough! And see their faces, listen to their prate, Discussed of,-" This I love, or this I hate, "This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint, Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart; Oh, youth, men praise so,-holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth ? THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. THAT second time they hunted me Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above, Bright creeping thro' the moss they love. -How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, And much beside, two days; the third, To work among the maize; you know, With us, in Lombardy, they bring With that; my glove lay in her breast: An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy; I had devised a certain tale Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail |