Even we have tamely, basely kissed the ground
Before that Papal Power,-that Ghost of Her,
The World's Imperial mistress-sitting, crowned,
And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre !*
But this is past :-too long have lordly priests
And priestly lords led us, with all our pride
Withering about us-like devoted beasts,
Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.
'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!"
Mary Magdalen.-Her Story.-Numerous Pictures of Her.-Correggio.Guido-Raphael, &c.-Canova's two exquisite Statues.-The Somariva Magdalen.-Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.
No wonder, Mary, that thy story
Touches all hearts-for there we see
The soul's corruption, and its glory,
Its death and life combined in thee.
From the first moment, when we find
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,-like demons shrined
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when, by touch of Heaven set free,
Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of Bethany),
And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such 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 :—
Till, oh, blest reward for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had passed away its mortal shroud,
* This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:-"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts, less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand ;
The kindliest record ever given,
Even under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
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 not taught to see
All hope in Him, who pardoned thee!
No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumphed in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Even in thy sorrow's bitterest 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 picturing her, who "loved 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 given thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,
Not one has equalled, hath come nigh
Canova's fancy-oh, not one
Hath made thee feel and live and die.
In tears away as he has done,
In those bright images, more bright
With true expressions 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 flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow consuming power;
And mingling earth's luxurious grace
With heaven's subliming thoughts so well,
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 contradiction 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 Somariva, at Paris.
We gaze and know not, in which place
Such beauty was most formed to dwell!
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence, and tears
Had worn thee down,—and ne'er did Art
With half such mental power express
The ruin which a breaking heart,
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness.
Those wasted arms, that keep the trace,
Even now, of all their youthful grace,
Those tresses, of thy charms the last
Whose pride forsook thee, wildly cast-
Those features, even in fading worth
The freshest smiles to others given,
And those sunk eyes, that see not earth,
But whose last looks are full of heaven!
Wonderful artist! praise, like mine-
Though springing from a soul, that feels
Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame,*
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays,t
Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Such master-spirits only feel
That best of fame, a rival's praise !
A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-Their Ménage.-Its Grossness.-Claude Anet-Reverence with which the Spot is now visited.-Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.-Feelings excited 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, Independence, &c.
STRANGE power of Genius, that can throw
O'er all that's vicious, weak, and low,
Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes
As dazzle even the steadiest eyes
'Tis too absurd-'tis weakness, shame,
This low prostration before Fame;
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
↑ Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be careered o'er, as they please.
No-give triumphant Genius brave
All that his loftiest wish can crave:
If he be worshipped, 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 reverence, 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 would fain forget,
This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet;
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words
Of Man disturbed their orisons;
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill-side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
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,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play-
This scene, which would have filled my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is ;-
Of Love where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's 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 sequestered 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 hateful memories near;
Those sordid 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 glowed
With Fancy's flame (and it was his
If ever given to mortal), showed
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 along the sullying sod;
What sensibility may fall
From its false lip, what plans 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 heaven they rove,
They, who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor ask a heaven above
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 timbrels, 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!
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