Poems (Dorr)/In a Gallery

by Julia Caroline Dorr

IN A GALLERY  (ANTWERP, 1891)

The Virgin floating on the silver moonMadonna Mary with her holy child;Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high;Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue;Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine,And martyrs all unmindful of their pain;Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved;Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields,Where patient women toiled; with here and thereThe glint of summer skies and summer seas,And the red glow of humble, household fires!

 Breathless I stood and silent, even as oneWho, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a faceDown the long gallery drew me as a star;A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lipsJust touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyesThat kept their own dear secret, smiling stillWith a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade,Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair,And a long, slender hand whose fingers heldLoosely a parchment scroll—and that was all.Yet from those high, imperial presences,Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earthWith all its loves and longings, back I turned Again and yet again, lured by the smileThat called me like a voice, "Come hither, friend!"

"Simon de Vos," thus saith the catalogue,And "Painted by himself."And "Painted by himself."Three hundred yearsThou hast been dust and ashes. I who writeAnd they who read, we know another worldFrom that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smileEven as here thou smilest, if to-dayThou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one,Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlivedSo much earth held more precious, let thy lipsOpen and answer me! Whence was it born,The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face?What manner of man wert thou? For the booksOf the long generations do not tell!Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more?What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other menWould pose as heroes; would go grandly downTo coming ages in the martyr's rôleOr, if perchance they're poets, set their woesTo wailing music, that the world may countTheir heart-throbs in the chanting of a song. Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!