X

Santa Maria Novella church. You pass

The left stair, where, at plague-time, Macchiavel

      Saw one with set fair face as in a glass,

Dressed out against the fear of death and hell,

      Rustling her silks in pauses of the mass,

To keep the thought off how her husband fell,

      When she left home, stark dead across her feet—

The stair leads up to what Orgagna gave

      Of Dante's dæmons; but you, passing it,

Ascend the right stair of the farther nave,

      To muse in a small chapel scarcely lit

By Cimabue's Virgin. Bright and brave,

      That picture was accounted, mark, of old!

A king stood bare before its sovran grace;

      A reverent people shouted to behold

The picture, not the king; and even the place

      Containing such a miracle, grew bold,

Named the Glad Borgo from that beauteous face,

      Which thrilled the artist, after work, to think

That his ideal Mary-smile should stand

      So very near him!—he, within the brink

Of all that glory, let in by his hand

      With too divine a rashness! Yet none shrink

Who gaze here now—albeit the thing is planned

      Sublimely in the thought's simplicity.

The Virgin, throned in empyreal state,

      Minds only the young babe upon her knee;

While, each side, angels bear the royal weight,

      Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly

Oblivion of their wings! the Child thereat

      Stretches its hand like God. If any should,

Because of some stiff draperies and loose joints,

      Gaze scorn down from the heights of Raffaelhood,

On Cimabue's picture,—Heaven anoints

      The head of no such critic, and his blood

The poet's curse strikes full on, and appoints

      To ague and cold spasms for evermore.

A noble picture! worthy of the shout

      Wherewith along the streets the people bore

Its cherub faces, which the sun threw out

      Until they stooped and entered the church door!

Yet rightly was young Giotto talked about,

      Whom Cimabue found among the sheep,

And knew, as gods know gods, and carried home

      To paint the things he painted, with a deep

And fuller insight, and so overcome

      His chapel-Virgin with a heavenlier sweep

Of light. For thus we mount into the sum

      Of great things known or acted. I hold, too,

That Cimabue smiled upon the lad,

      At the first stroke which passed what he could do,—

Or else his Virgin's smile had never had

      Such sweetness in't. All great men who foreknew

Their heirs in art, for art's sake have been glad,

      And bent their old white heads as if uncrowned,

Fanatics of their pure ideals still,

      Far more than of their laurels which were found

With some less stalwart struggle of the will.

      If old Margheritone trembled, swooned,

And died despairing at the open sill

      Of other men's achievements, (who achieved,

By loving art beyond the master!) he

      Was old Margheritone and conceived

Never, at youngest and most ecstasy,

      A Virgin like that dream of one, which heaved

The death-sigh from his heart. If wistfully

      Margheritone sickened at the smell

Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go!—

      Strong Cimabue stood up very well

In spite of Giotto's—and Angelico,

      The artist-saint, kept smiling in his cell

The smile with which he welcomed the sweet slow

      Inbreak of angels, (whitening through the dim

That he might paint them!) while the sudden sense

      Of Raffael's future was revealed to him

By force of his own fair works' competence.

      The same blue waters where the dolphins swim

Suggest the Tritons. Through the blue Immense

      Strike out all swimmers! cling not in the way

Of one another, so to sink; but learn

      The strong man's impulse, catch the fresh'ning spray

He throws up in his motions, and discern

      By his dear, westering eye, the time of day.

O God, thou hast set us worthy gifts to earn,

      Beside thy heaven and Thee! and when I say

'Tis worth while for the weakest man alive

      To live and die,—there's room too, I repeat,

For all the strongest to live well, and strive

      Their own way, by their individual heat,

Like a new bee-swarm leaving the old hive

      Despite the wax which tempteth violet-sweet.

So let the living live, the dead retain

      Flowers on cold graves!—though honour's best, supplied.

When we bring actions, to prove their's not vain.