Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SAINT-GAUDENS, by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON Poet's Biography First Line: Uplands of cornish! Ye, that yesterday Last Line: Apostles of rejoicing to mankind? Subject(s): Saint-gaudens, Augustus (1848-1907) | ||||||||
I UPLANDS of Cornish! Ye, that yesterday Were only beauteous, now are consecrate. Exalted are your humble slopes, to mate Proud Settignano and Fiesole, For her new-born is Italy's new birth of Art. In your beloved precincts of repose Now is the laurel lovelier than the rose. Henceforth there shall be seen An unaccustomed glory in the sheen Of yonder lingering river, overleant with green, Whose fountains hither happily shall start, Like eager Umbrian rills, that kiss and part, For that their course will run One to the Tiber, to the Arno one. O hills of Cornish! chalice of our spilled wine, Ye shall become a shrine, For now our Donatello is no more! He who could pour His spirit into clay, has lost the clay he wore, And Death, again, at last, Has robbed the Future to enrich the Past. He, who so often stood At joyous worship in your Sacred Wood, He shall be missed As autumn meadows miss the lark, Where Summer and Song were wont to keep melodious tryst. His fellows of the triple guild shall hark For his least whisper in the starry dark. Here, in his memory, Youth shall dedicate Laborious years to that unfolding which is Fate. By Beauty's faintest gleams She shall be followed over glades and streams. And all that is shall be forgot For what is not; And every common path shall lead to dreams. II POET of Cornish; comrade of his days: When late we met, With his remembrance how thine eyes were wet! Thy faltering voice his praise More eloquently did rehearse Than on his festal day thy liquid verse. Since once to love is never to forget, Let us defer our plaint of private sorrow Till some less unethereal to-morrow. To-day is not the poet's shame But the dull world's; not yet Shall it be kindled at the living flame Whose treasured embers Ever the world remembers. Not so the sculptor -- his immediate bays No hostile climate withers or delays. Let us forego the debt of friendly duty; A nation newly is bereft of beauty. Sing with me now his undeferred fame, -- For Time impatient is to set This jewel in his country's coronet. When all men with new accent speak his name, And all are blended in a vast regret, There is no place for grief of thee or me: One reckons not the rivers in the sea. Sing not to-day the hearth despoiled of fire: Ours be the trumpet, not the lyre. Death makes the great The treasure and the sorrow of the State. Nor is it less bereaved By what is unachieved. Oh, what a miracle is Fame! We carve some lately unfamiliar name Upon an outer wall, as challenge to the sun; And half its claim Is deathless work undone. Although the story of our art is brief, Thrice in the record, at a fadeless leaf, Falls an unfinished chapter; thrice the flower Closed ere the noonday glory drank its dew; Thrice have we lost of promise and of power -- The torch extinguished at its brightest hour -- His comrades all, for whom he twined the rue. But though they stand authentic and apart This is in our new land the first great grief of Art. III YET, sound for him the trumpet, not the lyre -- Him of the ardent, not the smouldering, fire: Whose boyhood knew full streets of martial song When the slow purpose of the throng Flamed to a new religion, and a soul. He knew the lure of flags; caught first the far drums' roll; Thrilled with the flash that runs Along the slanted guns; Kept time to the determined feet That ominously beat Upon the city's floor The firm, mad rhythm of war. With envious enterprise He saw the serried eyes That, level to the hour's demand, Looked straight toward Duty's promised land. That to be boy was to be prisoned fast With the great world of battle sweeping past, While every hill and hollow Heard the heart-melting music, calling "Follow!" The day o'er-brimmed with longing and the night With beckoning dreams of many a dauntless fight, As though doomed heroes summoned us to see Thermopylaes and Marathons. -- Ah, had he known who was to be Their laureate in bronze! But who can read To-morrow in To-day? Fame makes no bargain with us, will not say Do thus, and thou shalt gain, or thus and lose; Nay, will not let us for another choose The trodden and the lighted way. She burns the accepted pattern, breaks the mould, Prefers the novel to the old, Revels in secrets and surprise; And while the wise Seek knowledge at the sages' gate The schoolboy by a truant path keeps rendezvous with Fate. IV THIS is the honey in the lion's jaws: That from the reverberant roar And wrack of savage war Art saves a sweet repose, by mystic laws Not by long labor learned But by keen love discerned; For this it bears the palm: To show the storms of life in terms of calm. Not what he knew but what he felt, Gave secret power to this Celt. Master of harmony, his sense could find A bond of likeness among things diverse, And could their forms in beauty so immerse That to the enchanted mind Ideal and real seem a single kind. Behold our gaunt Crusader, grimly brave, The swooping eagle in his face, The very genius of command, And her not less, with her imperious hand, -- The herald Victory holding equal pace. Not trulier in the blast Moves prow with mast; Line mates with flowing line, as wave with following wave -- Rider and homely horse Intent upon their course As though she went not with them. Near or far, One is their import: she the dream, the star -- And he the prose, the iron thrust -- of War. V So, on the traveled verge Of storied Boston's green acropolis That sculptured music, that immortal dirge That better than towering shaft Has fitly epitaphed The hated ranks men did not dare to hiss! When Duty makes her clarion call to Ease Let her repair and point to this: Why seek another clime? Why seek another place? We have no Parthenon, but a nobler frieze, -- Since sacrifice than worship nobler is. It sings -- the anthem of a rescued race; It moves -- the epic of a patriot time, And each heroic figure makes a martial rhyme. How like ten thousand treads that little band, Fit for the van of armies! What command Sits in that saddle! What renouncing will! What portent grave of firm-confronted ill! And as a cloud doth hover over sea, Born from its waters and returning there, Fame, sprung from thoughts of mortals, swims the air And gives them back her memories, deathlessly. VI I WEPT by Lincoln's pall when children's tears, That saddest of the nation's years, Were reckoned in the census of her grief; And flooding every eye, Of low estate or high, The crystal sign of sorrow made men peers. The raindrop on the April leaf Was not more unashamed. Hand spoke to hand A universal language; and whene'er The hopeful met 't was but to mingle their despair. Our yesterday's war-widowed land To-day was orphaned. Its victorious voice Lost memory of the power to rejoice. For he whom all had learned to love was prone. The weak had slain the mighty; by a whim The ordered edifice was overthrown And lay in futile ruin, mute and dim. O Death, thou sculptor without art, What didst thou to the Lincoln of our heart? Where was the manly eye That conquered enmity? Where was the gentle smile So innocent of guile -- The message of good-will To all men, whether good or ill? Where shall we trace Those treasured lines, half humor and half pain, That made him doubly brother to the race? For these, O Death, we search thy mask in vain! Yet shall the Future be not all bereft: Not without witness shall its eyes be left. The soul, again, is visible through Art, Servant of God and Man. The immortal part Lives in the miracle of a kindred mind, That found itself in seeking for its kind. The humble by the humble is discerned; And he whose melancholy broke in sunny wit Could be no stranger unto him who turned From sad to gay, as though in jest he learned Some mystery of sorrow. It was writ: The hand that shapes us Lincoln must be strong As his that righted our bequeathed wrong; The heart that shows us Lincoln must be brave, An equal comrade unto king or slave; The mind that gives us Lincoln must be clear As that of seer To fathom deeps of faith abiding under tides of fear. What wonder Fame, impatient, will not wait To call her sculptor great Who keeps for us in bronze the soul that saved the State! VII MOST fair his dreams and visions when he dwelt His spirit's comrade. Meager was his speech Of things celestial, save in line and mould; But sudden cloud-rift may reveal a star As surely as the unimpeded sky. The deer has its deep forest of retreat: Shall the shy spirit have none? Be, then, The covert unprofaned wherein withdrew The soul that 'neath his pensive ardor lay? Find the last frontier -- Man is still unknown ground. Things true and beautiful made a heaven for him. Childhood, the sunrise of the spirit world, Yielded its limpid secrets to his eye. He was in Friendship what he was in Art -- Wax to receive and metal to endure. Looking upon his warriors facing death, Heroes seem human, such as all might be Yet not without the consecrating will! Age is serener by his honoring; And when he sought the temple's inmost fane The angels of his Adoration lent Old hopes new glory, and his reverent hand Wrought like Beato at the face of Christ. But what is this that, neither Hope nor Doom, Waits with eternal patience at a tomb? A brooding spirit without name or date, Or race, or nation, or belief; Beyond the reach of joy or grief, Above the plane of wrong or right; A riddle only to the sorrowless; the mate Of all the elements in calm -- still winter night, Sea after tempest, time-scarred mountain height; Passive as Buddha, single as the Sphinx, -- Yet neither that sweet god that seems to smile On mortal good and guile, Nor wide-eyed monster that into Egypt sinks And Beast and Nature links; But something human, with an inward sense Profound, but nevermore intense; And though it doth not stoop to teach, It will with each Attuned to beauty hold a muted speech; In its Madonna-lidded meditation Not more a mystery than a revelation; Listen! It doth to Man the Universe relate. O Sentinel before the Future's Gate! If thou be Fate, art thou still our Fate? For those who fain would live, but must breathe on Prisoners of this prosaic age -- Ah, who for them shall read that page Since winged Shelley and wise Emerson are gone? VIII How shall we honor him and in his place His comrades of the Old and Happy Race Whose Art is refuge Sorrow comes not nigh, Though Art be twin to Sorrow? They reply From all the centuries they outsoar, From every shore Of that three-continented sea To which the streams of our antiquity Fell swift and joyously: "How, but to live with Beauty?" Across our Western world without surcease How many a column sounds the name of Greece! The sun, loth-lingering on the crest of Rome, Finds here how many an imitative dome! O classic quarries of our modern thought, What blasphemies in stone from you are wrought! For though to Law, Religion, or the State, These stones to Beauty first are dedicate, Yet to what purpose, if we but revere The temple, not the goddess? -- if whene'er The magic of her deep obsession seem To master any soul, we call it dream? Come, let us live with Beauty! Her name is ever on our lips; but who Holds Beauty as the fairest bride to woo? The gods oft wedded mortals: now alone May man the Chief Immortal make his own. To Time each day adds increment of age But Beauty ne'er grows old. There is no gauge To count the glories of the counted hours. Flowers die, but not the ecstasy of flowers. Come, let us live with Beauty! What infinite treasure hers! and what small need Of our cramped natures, whose misguided greed, Hound-like, pursues false trails of Luxury Or sodden Comfort! Who shall call us free -- Content if but some casual wafture come From fields Elysian, where the valleys bloom With life delectable? Such happy air Should be the light we live in; unaware It should be breathed, till man retrieves the joy Philosophy has wrested from the boy. Come, let us live with Beauty! Who shall put limit to her sovereignty? Who shall her loveliness define? Think you the Graces only three? -- The Muses only nine? Beyond our star-sown deep of space Where, as for solace, huddles world with world (A human instinct in the primal wrack), Mayhap there is a dark and desert place Of deeper awe With but one outer star, there hurled By cataclysm and there held in leash by law: If lonely be that star, 't is not for Beauty's lack. She was ere there was any need of Truth, She was ere there was any stir of Love; And when Man came, and made her world uncouth With sin, and cities, and the gash of hills And forests, and a thousand brutish ills, -- Moved by eternal ruth She hid her wounds and gave him, from above, The magic all his happiness is fashioned of. IX KNIGHTS of the five arts that our sculptor prized: How shall ye honor him and, in his place, Those others of the Old and Happy Race Who lived for beauty, and the golden lure despised? Painter of music, Architect of song, Sculptor in color, Poet in clay and bronze, And thou whose unsubstantial fancy builds Abiding symphonies from stone and space! Mount ye to large horizons: ever be As avid of other beauty as your own. As nations greater are than all their states, More than the sum of all the arts is Art. High are their clear commands, but Art herself Makes holier summons. Ever open stand The doors of her free temple. At her shrine In service of the world, whose hurt she heals, Ye, too, physicians of the mind and heart -- Shall ye not take the Hippocratic oath? Have ye not heard the voices of the night Call you from kindred, comfort, sloth and praise, To lead into the light the willing feet That grope for order, harmony and joy? -- To reach full hands of bounty unto those Who starve for beauty in our glut of gold? How shall we honor him whom we revere -- Lover of all the arts and of his land? How, but to cherish Beauty's every flower? -- How, but to live with Beauty, and so be Apostles of Rejoicing to mankind? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION by WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY FOR THE UNION DEAD by ROBERT LOWELL AN ENGLISH MOTHER by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON BROWNING AT ASOLO by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON DEWEY AT MANILA [MAY 1, 1898] by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON ILLUSIONS by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON THE WISTFUL DAYS by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON A CHOPIN FANTASY (ON REMEMBRANCE OF A PRELUDE) by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON A DARK DAY by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON A LOVER'S ANSWER by ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON |
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