Poems (Commelin)/The Artist's Search for Beauty
THE ARTIST'S SEARCH FOR BEAUTY.
The artist, young Francesco, had a soul
Athirst for beauty, in what form soe'er
He found it. Born beneath Italian skies
Where countless charms of nature ministered,
And filled his senses keen with rare delight,
He lived in sights and dreams of loveliness,——
In azure skies, and ocean's changing hues,
In lights and shades upon the mountain sides,
In feathery palms and fragrant orange trees
Most sweet at night-fall, and in thousand forms
Of flowers fair, delighting every sense,
Forget-me-nots and blue anemones,
Rosemary, sweet-briar, yellow daffodils,
In these he found communion and delight.
And when he looked for some pursuit in life,
No commonplace or mercenary one
Would please him, but to make some form, some shape
Of beauty, that might be a "joy for aye"
Was his intent: and then to Florence he
Wended his way, to study works of art.
And there, within the Tuscan capital,
Enriched with noblest, rarest work of man,
What forms and shapes of loveliness he saw
In grand cathedral, Brunelleschi's Dome,
And Angelo's embodiments divine,
Ghiberti's wondrous "Gates of Paradise,"
And Santa Croce, where, with reverent awe,
He read the names of all the honored dead.
Then ardent longing kindled all his soul
To shrine some thought within a sculptured form,
To fasten in Carrara block some shape
Of haunting beauty, effluence divine
Of all his life and thought, dream of his dreams,
That should remain while generations passed,
And shed a halo on Francesco's name.
Then deep in mythologic lore he plunged,
And stored his mind with rarest poetry,
And toiled for years with marble and with clay,
Till, in the fresh meridian of his life,
Renown and honor Florence gave to him.
Then married he the gentle Angela,
Fair girl, with eyes like Parma violets,
And loved the tender beauty in her face.
The happy months sped on, their home made bright
With light of love, and love of all things fair.
How quick the days passed by with Angela
To cheer and stimulate Francesco's toil!
Athirst for beauty, in what form soe'er
He found it. Born beneath Italian skies
Where countless charms of nature ministered,
And filled his senses keen with rare delight,
He lived in sights and dreams of loveliness,——
In azure skies, and ocean's changing hues,
In lights and shades upon the mountain sides,
In feathery palms and fragrant orange trees
Most sweet at night-fall, and in thousand forms
Of flowers fair, delighting every sense,
Forget-me-nots and blue anemones,
Rosemary, sweet-briar, yellow daffodils,
In these he found communion and delight.
And when he looked for some pursuit in life,
No commonplace or mercenary one
Would please him, but to make some form, some shape
Of beauty, that might be a "joy for aye"
Was his intent: and then to Florence he
Wended his way, to study works of art.
And there, within the Tuscan capital,
Enriched with noblest, rarest work of man,
What forms and shapes of loveliness he saw
In grand cathedral, Brunelleschi's Dome,
And Angelo's embodiments divine,
Ghiberti's wondrous "Gates of Paradise,"
And Santa Croce, where, with reverent awe,
He read the names of all the honored dead.
Then ardent longing kindled all his soul
To shrine some thought within a sculptured form,
To fasten in Carrara block some shape
Of haunting beauty, effluence divine
Of all his life and thought, dream of his dreams,
That should remain while generations passed,
And shed a halo on Francesco's name.
Then deep in mythologic lore he plunged,
And stored his mind with rarest poetry,
And toiled for years with marble and with clay,
Till, in the fresh meridian of his life,
Renown and honor Florence gave to him.
Then married he the gentle Angela,
Fair girl, with eyes like Parma violets,
And loved the tender beauty in her face.
The happy months sped on, their home made bright
With light of love, and love of all things fair.
How quick the days passed by with Angela
To cheer and stimulate Francesco's toil!
The shapeless stones before him came to life
In forms of beauty. Yet before him still
He saw a vision of diviner mould—
The figure of "Italia," in whose face
He meant to set the look of Angela
Idealized, in which rare master-piece
He would embody all his love for her,
For Italy, his country, and for art.
A happy year was that, with heart at rest,
With earnest toil, with pleasant twilight strolls
On the broad Ponte, in the evenings cool,
Or to see Giotto's work against the sky,
The slender, airy, graceful Campanile;
And on the festa days, with happy throngs,
To wander in the warm, transparent air.
But when the year had flown, Angela too
Had left him, leaving but an infant frail,
Ere yet his master-piece was quite complete.
It lacked expression. In its soulless face,
No look of Angela, though features fair
It had. And she was gone! Gone from his life!
The wailing child, in old Teresa's care,
Soothed not his grief, and all things he had loved
Were valueless. He wandered up and down
The rooms now void, for lack of one so dear.
His dreary studio, the marble form
Unfinished, only fired his heated brain
To madness. Weeks and months passed by,
His chisel idle. Then, in wild carouse,
He sought to drown remembrance of his grief.
One night he threw himself upon his bed,
In fitful slumber. In the darkened room,
A sudden radiance streamed of moonbeams pale,
And, in its light, his eyes, half-opened, saw
Strange forms and shapes, and, listening, he heard
Sweet melody and voices soft, and words:
In forms of beauty. Yet before him still
He saw a vision of diviner mould—
The figure of "Italia," in whose face
He meant to set the look of Angela
Idealized, in which rare master-piece
He would embody all his love for her,
For Italy, his country, and for art.
A happy year was that, with heart at rest,
With earnest toil, with pleasant twilight strolls
On the broad Ponte, in the evenings cool,
Or to see Giotto's work against the sky,
The slender, airy, graceful Campanile;
And on the festa days, with happy throngs,
To wander in the warm, transparent air.
But when the year had flown, Angela too
Had left him, leaving but an infant frail,
Ere yet his master-piece was quite complete.
It lacked expression. In its soulless face,
No look of Angela, though features fair
It had. And she was gone! Gone from his life!
The wailing child, in old Teresa's care,
Soothed not his grief, and all things he had loved
Were valueless. He wandered up and down
The rooms now void, for lack of one so dear.
His dreary studio, the marble form
Unfinished, only fired his heated brain
To madness. Weeks and months passed by,
His chisel idle. Then, in wild carouse,
He sought to drown remembrance of his grief.
One night he threw himself upon his bed,
In fitful slumber. In the darkened room,
A sudden radiance streamed of moonbeams pale,
And, in its light, his eyes, half-opened, saw
Strange forms and shapes, and, listening, he heard
Sweet melody and voices soft, and words:
"Come away! come away!
Leave this froward child of clay!
Far from every care of earth,
Thy freed soul shall find new birth.
Leave him now! on his brow
Press thy lips, but do not wake him,
Now so nigh, one soft sigh,
Then away, and aye forsake him."
Leave this froward child of clay!
Far from every care of earth,
Thy freed soul shall find new birth.
Leave him now! on his brow
Press thy lips, but do not wake him,
Now so nigh, one soft sigh,
Then away, and aye forsake him."
"Yet a little, little longer,
I must linger, I must tarry,
Else a weary, weary burden
Back to heaven I shall carry.
How to heaven can I go,
When my heart is here below?"
I must linger, I must tarry,
Else a weary, weary burden
Back to heaven I shall carry.
How to heaven can I go,
When my heart is here below?"
Then Francesco saw a phantom
Of surpassing beauty rise;
All its earthly looks transfigured,
Yet with sad and tear-stained eyes.
Round about the broad, white brow,
Asphodels were hanging low.
Of surpassing beauty rise;
All its earthly looks transfigured,
Yet with sad and tear-stained eyes.
Round about the broad, white brow,
Asphodels were hanging low.
Spake the vision: "Thou, Francesco,
Lovest beauty: in thy heart
Is the love of all things lovely,
Formed by nature or by art.
But one beauty thou dost miss,
And I came to tell thee this:
Lovest beauty: in thy heart
Is the love of all things lovely,
Formed by nature or by art.
But one beauty thou dost miss,
And I came to tell thee this:
Underneath thy careless eyes,
Beauty, sweet, unfolding, lies.
Dost thou see my eyelids yet
Stained with saddest tears, are wet?
Beauty nobler yet thou losest
When unworthy life thou choosest."
Beauty, sweet, unfolding, lies.
Dost thou see my eyelids yet
Stained with saddest tears, are wet?
Beauty nobler yet thou losest
When unworthy life thou choosest."
Then the shape, in air dissolving,
Faded from his sight away,
And the room returned to darkness,
Till the dawning of the day.
Faded from his sight away,
And the room returned to darkness,
Till the dawning of the day.
Francesco woke in the gray light of morn,
The midnight vision filling all his mind
With thought of Angela, his spirit guest,
Of beauty wondrous, save those sad-stained eyes.
Ah, heavenly visitant, could he but catch
That look unearthly while the phantom fair
Yet lingered with him, then forevermore
Those lineaments divine of Angela
And Italy in that one form would be
Imprisoned, semblance sweet of all he loved.
His chisel then he seized with eager haste,
To catch the evanescent image fair.
Again, in wholesome toil, the days passed by,
Each touch rewarding all the sculptor's care.
The wondrous beauty glowing in his soul
He wrought upon the statue's face, and yet
Its eyes, reproachful, sad, were bent on him
With just the look the midnight vision wore.
With finest touch and nicest care he strove
To change this imperfection, yet in vain,
Until at length, discouraged, sick at heart,
By sad spell haunted, he a veil threw o'er
Its features, glad to hide them from his sight.
Turning away, he heard Teresa's voice
And saw the smiling infant on her arm.
The passing months had worked with subtle charm.
With dimpled hands outstretched, the little one
Asked for caressing; and Francesco saw
In its fair features, crowned with golden rings,
And in its violet eyes, sweet, tender looks
Of Angela; and now, at length, he knew
A beauty he had missed, and day by day
New charms unfolded. Now, the daily toil
Was crowned with frolic, and the sculptor felt
New ardor and incentive for his work.
Filled with deep shame for all his past neglect,
He strove, each day, to make the infant glad,
And, for such sweet possession, life itself
Must be ennobled. So the years rolled on,
Till one bright day, Francesco, from his toil,
Paused, for an instant, since the playful child,
In frolic mood, had torn the statue's veil;
And, gladdened by the beauty thus revealed,
His eyes the likeness of his mother wore,
The look the marble never had expressed.
With gentle touches, then, Francesco's hand
Guided the chisel, while, with eager haste,
The fleeting semblance sought he to imprint
Upon the statue fair, and soon its eyes
Beamed soft on him with hope and tenderness,
Vision of Angela and Italy,
Embodiment complete of all his thought,
And oft, a happy presence, with soft eyes,
No more reproachful, nor with sad tears stained,
Seemed, in communion sweet, to dwell with him.
The midnight vision filling all his mind
With thought of Angela, his spirit guest,
Of beauty wondrous, save those sad-stained eyes.
Ah, heavenly visitant, could he but catch
That look unearthly while the phantom fair
Yet lingered with him, then forevermore
Those lineaments divine of Angela
And Italy in that one form would be
Imprisoned, semblance sweet of all he loved.
His chisel then he seized with eager haste,
To catch the evanescent image fair.
Again, in wholesome toil, the days passed by,
Each touch rewarding all the sculptor's care.
The wondrous beauty glowing in his soul
He wrought upon the statue's face, and yet
Its eyes, reproachful, sad, were bent on him
With just the look the midnight vision wore.
With finest touch and nicest care he strove
To change this imperfection, yet in vain,
Until at length, discouraged, sick at heart,
By sad spell haunted, he a veil threw o'er
Its features, glad to hide them from his sight.
Turning away, he heard Teresa's voice
And saw the smiling infant on her arm.
The passing months had worked with subtle charm.
With dimpled hands outstretched, the little one
Asked for caressing; and Francesco saw
In its fair features, crowned with golden rings,
And in its violet eyes, sweet, tender looks
Of Angela; and now, at length, he knew
A beauty he had missed, and day by day
New charms unfolded. Now, the daily toil
Was crowned with frolic, and the sculptor felt
New ardor and incentive for his work.
Filled with deep shame for all his past neglect,
He strove, each day, to make the infant glad,
And, for such sweet possession, life itself
Must be ennobled. So the years rolled on,
Till one bright day, Francesco, from his toil,
Paused, for an instant, since the playful child,
In frolic mood, had torn the statue's veil;
And, gladdened by the beauty thus revealed,
His eyes the likeness of his mother wore,
The look the marble never had expressed.
With gentle touches, then, Francesco's hand
Guided the chisel, while, with eager haste,
The fleeting semblance sought he to imprint
Upon the statue fair, and soon its eyes
Beamed soft on him with hope and tenderness,
Vision of Angela and Italy,
Embodiment complete of all his thought,
And oft, a happy presence, with soft eyes,
No more reproachful, nor with sad tears stained,
Seemed, in communion sweet, to dwell with him.