Poems (Commelin)/The Artist's Search for Beauty
THE ARTIST'S SEARCH FOR BEAUTY.
The artist, young Francesco, had a soulAthirst for beauty, in what form soe'erHe found it. Born beneath Italian skiesWhere 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 treesMost sweet at night-fall, and in thousand formsOf 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 oneWould please him, but to make some form, some shapeOf 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 sawIn 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 soulTo shrine some thought within a sculptured form,To fasten in Carrara block some shapeOf haunting beauty, effluence divineOf 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 brightWith light of love, and love of all things fair.How quick the days passed by with AngelaTo cheer and stimulate Francesco's toil!
The shapeless stones before him came to lifeIn forms of beauty. Yet before him stillHe saw a vision of diviner mould—The figure of "Italia," in whose faceHe meant to set the look of AngelaIdealized, in which rare master-pieceHe 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 strollsOn 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 tooHad 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 fairIt 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 lovedWere valueless. He wandered up and downThe rooms now void, for lack of one so dear.His dreary studio, the marble formUnfinished, only fired his heated brainTo 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, sawStrange forms and shapes, and, listening, he heardSweet 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 browPress 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 burdenBack to heaven I shall carry.How to heaven can I go,When my heart is here below?"
Then Francesco saw a phantomOf 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 heartIs 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 yetStained with saddest tears, are wet?Beauty nobler yet thou losestWhen 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.
Francesco woke in the gray light of morn,The midnight vision filling all his mindWith thought of Angela, his spirit guest,Of beauty wondrous, save those sad-stained eyes.Ah, heavenly visitant, could he but catchThat look unearthly while the phantom fairYet lingered with him, then forevermoreThose lineaments divine of AngelaAnd Italy in that one form would beImprisoned, 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 soulHe wrought upon the statue's face, and yetIts eyes, reproachful, sad, were bent on himWith just the look the midnight vision wore.With finest touch and nicest care he stroveTo change this imperfection, yet in vain,Until at length, discouraged, sick at heart,By sad spell haunted, he a veil threw o'erIts features, glad to hide them from his sight.Turning away, he heard Teresa's voiceAnd saw the smiling infant on her arm.The passing months had worked with subtle charm.With dimpled hands outstretched, the little oneAsked for caressing; and Francesco sawIn its fair features, crowned with golden rings,And in its violet eyes, sweet, tender looksOf Angela; and now, at length, he knewA beauty he had missed, and day by dayNew charms unfolded. Now, the daily toilWas crowned with frolic, and the sculptor feltNew 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 itselfMust 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 handGuided the chisel, while, with eager haste,The fleeting semblance sought he to imprintUpon the statue fair, and soon its eyesBeamed 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.