Candid eyes in open faces Clear, not keen, no narrowing line: Hither turn your favoring graces Now the cloth is drawn for wine. In best of worlds if all's not bright, Allow, the shadow's chased by light, Though rest for neither yet may be. And beauty's charm, where Nature reigns, Nor crimes nor codes may quite subdue, As witness Naples long in chains Exposed dishevelled by the sea -- Ah, so much more her beauty drew, Till Savoy's red-shirt Perseus flew And cut that fair Andromeda free. Then Fancy flies. Nor less the trite Matter-of-fact transcends the flight: A rail-way train took Naples' town; But Garibaldi sped thereon: This movement's rush sufficing there To rout King Fanny, Bomba's heir, Already stuffing trunks and hampers, At news that from Sicilia passed -- The banished Bullock from the Pampas Trampling the royal levies massed. And, later: He has swum the Strait, And in Calabria making head, Cheered by the peasants garlanded, Pushes for Naples' nearest gate. From that red Taurus plunging on With lowered horns and forehead dun, Shall matadores save Bomba's son? He fled. And her Redeemer's banners Glad Naples greeted with strown flowers Hurrahs and secular hosannas That fidgety made all tyrant powers. Ye halls of history, arched by time, Founded in fate, enlarged by crime, Now shines like phosphorus scratched in dark 'Gainst your grimed walls the luminous mark Of one who in no paladin age Was knightly -- him who lends a page Now signal in time's recent story Where scarce in vogue are "Plutarch's Men," And jobbers deal in popular glory. -- But he the hero was a sword Whereto at whiles Cavour was guard. The point described a fiery arc, A swerve of wrist ordained the mark. Wise statemanship, a ruling star Made peace itself subserve the war. In forging into fact a dream -- For dream it was, a dream for long -- Italia disenthralled and one, Above her but the Alps -- no thong High flourished, held by Don or Hun; Italia, how cut up, divided Nigh paralysed, by cowls misguided; Locked as in Chancery's numbing hand, Fattening the predatory band Of shyster-princes, whose ill sway Still kept her a calamitous land; In ending this, spite cruel delay, And making, in the People's name, Of Italy's disunited frame, A unit and a telling State Participant in the world's debate; Few deeds of arms, in fruitful end, The statecraft of Cavour transcend. What towns with alien guards that teemed Attest Art's Holy Land redeemed. Slipt from the Grand Duke's gouty tread, Florence, fair flower up-lifts the head. Ancona, plucked from Peter's Chair, With all the Papal fiefs in band, Her Arch Imperial now may wear For popular triumph and command. And Venice: there the Croatian horde Swagger no more with clattering sword Ruffling the doves that dot the Square. In Rome no furtive cloaked one now Scribbles his gibe on Pasquin's brow, Since wag his tongue at Popes who may The Popedom needs endure his say. But (happier) feuds with princelings cease, The People federate a peace. Cremona fiddles, blithe to see Contentious cities comrades free. Sicilia, -- Umbria, -- muster in Their towns in squads, and hail Turin. One state, one flag, one sword, one crown, Till time build higher or Cade pull down. Counts this for much? Well, more is won. Brave public works are schemed or done. Swart Tiber, dredged, may rich repay -- The Pontine Marsh, too, drained away. And, far along the Tuscan shore The weird Maremma reassume Her ancient tilth and wheaten plume. Ay, to reclaim Ansonia's land The Spirit o' the Age he'll take a hand. He means to dust each bric-a-brac city, Pluck the feathers from all banditti; The Pope he'll hat, and, yea or nay ye, Rejuvenate e'en poor old Pompeii! Concede, accomplished aims unite With many a promise hopeful and as bright. II Ay. But the Picturesque, I wonder -- The Picturesque and Old Romance! May these conform and share advance With Italy and the world's career? At little suppers, where I'm one, My artist-friends this question ponder When ale goes round; but, in brave cheer The vineyards yield, they'll beading run Like Arethusa burst from ground. Ay, and in lateral freaks of gamesome wit Moribund Old Romance irreverent twit. "Adieu, rosettes!" sighs Steen in way Of fun convivial, frankly gay, "Adieu, rosettes and point-de-vise!" All garnish strenuous time refuse; In peacocks' tails put out the eyes! Utility reigns -- Ah, well-a-way! -- And bustles along in Bentham's shoes. For the Picturesque -- suffice, suffice The picture that fetches a picturesque price! Less jovial ones propound at start Your Picturesque in what inheres? "In nature point, in life, in art Where the essential thing appears. First settle that, we'll then take up The prior question." "Well, so be," Said Frater Lippi, who but he -- Exchanging late in changeable weather The cowl for the cap, a cap and feather; With wicked eye then twinkling fun, Suppressed in friendly decorous tone, "Here's Spagnoletto. He, I trow Can best avail here, and bestead. -- Come then, hidalgo, what sayst thou? The Picturesque -- an example yield." The man invoked, a man of brawn Tho' stumpt in stature, raised his head From sombre musings, and revealed A brow by no blest angel sealed, And mouth at corners droopt and drawn; And, catching but the last words, said "The Picturesque? -- Have ye not seen My Flaying of St. Batholomew -- My Laurence on the gridiron lean? There's Picturesque; and done as well As old Giotto's Dammed in Hell At Pisa in the Campo Santa." They turn hereat. In merriment Ironic jeers and juniors vent, "That's modest now, one hates a vaunter." But Lippi: "Why not Guido cite In Herod's Massacre?" -- weening well The Little Spaniard's envious spite Guido against, as gossips tell. The sombrous one igniting here And piercing Lippi's mannered mien Flared up volcanic. -- Ah, too clear, At odds are furious and serene. Misliking Lippi's mischievous eye As much as Spagnoletto's mood, And thinking to put unpleasantness by, Swanevelt spake, that Dutchman good: "Friends, but the Don errs not so wide. Like beauty strange with horror allied, -- As shown in great Leonardo's head Of snaky Medusa, -- so as well Grace and the Picturesque may dwell With Terror. Vain here to divide -- The Picturesque has many a side. For me, I take to Nature's scene Some scene select, set off serene With any tranquil thing you please -- A crumbling tower, a shepherd piping. My master, sure, with this agrees," His turned appeal on Claude here lighting. But he, the mildest tempered swain And eke discreetest, too, may be, That ever came out from Lorraine To lose himself in Arcady (Sweet there to be lost, as some have been, And find oneself in losing e'en) To Claude no pastime, none, nor gain Wavering in theory's wildering maze; Better he likes, though sunny he, To haunt the Arcadian woods in haze, Intent shy charms to win or ensnare, Beauty his Daphne, he the pursuer there. So naught he said whate'er he felt, Yet friendly nodded to Swanevelt. III But you, ye pleasant faces wise Saluted late, your candid eyes Methinks ye rub them in surprise: "What's this? Jan Steen and Lippi? Claude? Long since they embarked for Far Abroad! Have met them, you?" "Indeed. have I! Ma foi! The immortals never die; They are not so weak, they are not so craven; They keep time's sea and skip the haven. -- Well, letting minor memories go: With other illustrious ones in row I met them once at that brave tavern Founded by the first Delmonico, Forefather of a flourishing line! 'Twas all in off-hand easy way -- Pour passer le temps, as loungers say. In upper chamber did we sit The dolts below never dreaming it. The cloth was drawn -- we left alone, No solemn lackeys looking on. In wine's meridian, halcyon noon, Beatitude excludes elation. Thus for a while. Anon ensues All round their horizon, ruddying it, Such Lights Auroral, mirth and wit -- Thy flashes, O Falernian Muse! IV 'Twas Hals began. He to Vandyck, In whose well-polished gentle mien The practiced courtier of Kings was seen: "Van, how, pray, do these revels strike? Once you'd have me to England -- there Riches to get at St.. James's. Nay -- Patronage! 'Gainst that flattering snare, The more of it lure from hearth away, Old friends -- old vintages carry the day!" Whereto Vandyck, in silken dress Not smoother than his courteousness Smiled back, "Well, Franz, go then thy ways; Thy pencil anywhere earns thee praise, If not heapt gold. -- But hark the chat!" "'Tis gay," said Hals, not deaf to that, "And witty should be. O the cup, Wit rises in exhalation up!" And sympathetic viewed the scene. Then, turning, with yet livelier mien, "More candid than kings, less coy than the Graces, The pleasantness, Van, of these festival faces! -- But what's the theme?" "The theme was bent -- Be sure, in no dry argument -- On the Picturesque, what 'tis, -- its essence, Fibre and root, bud, efflorescence, Congenial soil, and where at best; Till, drawing attention from the rest, Some syllables dropt from Tintoretto, Negligent dropt; with limp lax air One long arm lolling over chair, Nor less evincing latent nerve Potential lazing in reserve. For strong he was -- the dyer's son, A leonine strength, no strained falsetto -- The Little Tinto, Tintoretto, Yes, Titan work by him was done. And now as one in Art's degree Superior to his topic -- he: "This Picturesque is scare my care. But note it now in Nature's work -- A thatched hut settling, rotting trees Mossed over. Some decay must lurk: In florid things but small its share. You'll find it in Rome's squalid Ghetto, In Algiers at the lazaretto, In many a grimy slimy lair." "Well put!" cried Brouwer with ruddled face, His wine-stained vesture, -- hardly new, -- Buttoned with silver florins true; "Grime mark and slime! -- Squirm not, Sweet Charles." Slyly, in tone mellifluous Addressing Carlo Dolce thus, Fidgety in shy fellowship, Fastidious even to finger-tip, And dainty prim; "In Art the stye Is quite inodorous. Here am I: I don't paint smells, no no, no no, No more than Huysum here, whose touch In pinks and tulips takes us so; But haunts that reek may harbor much; Hey, Teniers? Give us boors at inns, Mud floor -- dark settles -- jugs -- old bins, Under rafters foul with fume that blinks From logs too soggy much to blaze Which yet diffuse an umberish haze That beautifies the grime, methinks." To Rembrandt then: "Your sooty stroke! 'Tis you, old sweep, believe in smoke." But he, reserved in self-control, Jostled by that convivial droll, Seemed not to hear, nor silence broke. V Here Van der Velde, who dreamy heard Familiar Brouwer's unanswered word, Started from thoughts leagues off at sea: "Believe in smoke? Why, ay, such smoke As the swart old Dunderberg erst did fold -- When, like the cloud-voice from the mountain rolled, Van Tromp through the bolts of her broadside spoke -- Bolts heard by me!" And lapsed in thought Of yet other frays himself had seen When, fired by adventurous love of Art, With De Ruyter he'd cruised, yea, a tar had been. Reminiscent he sat. Some lion-heart old, Austerely aside, on latter days cast, So muses on glories engulfed in the Past, And laurelled ones stranded or overrolled By eventful Time. -- He awoke non, Or, rather, his dream took audible tone. -- Then filling his cup: "On Zealand's strand I saw morn's rays slant 'twixt the bones Of the oaken Dunderberg broken up; Saw her ribbed shadow on the sand. Ay -- picturesque! But naught atones For heroic navies, Pan's own ribs and knees, But a story now that storied made the seas!" There the gray master-hand marine Fell back with desolated mien Leaving the rest in fluttered mood Disturbed by such an interlude Scarce genial in over earnest tone, Nor quite harmonious with their own. To meet and turn the tide-wave there, "For me, friends," Gerard Douw here said, Twirling a glass with sprightly air, "I too revere forefather Eld, Just feeling's mine too for old oak, One here am I with Van der Velde; But take thereto in grade that's lesser: I like old oak in kitchen-dresser, The same set out with Delf ware olden And well scoured copper sauce-pans -- golden In aureate rays that on the hearth Flit like fairies or frisk in mirth. Oak buffet too; and, flung thereon, As just from evening-market won, Pigeons and prawns, bunched carrots bright, Gilled fish, clean radish red and white, And greens and cauliflowers, and things The good wife's good provider brings; All these too touched with fire-side light. On settle there, a Phillis pleasant Plucking a delicate fat pheasant. Agree, the picture's picturesque." "Ay, hollow beats all Arabsque! But Phillis? Make her Venus, man, Peachy and plump; and for the pheasant, No fowl but will prove acquiescent Promoted into Venus' swan; Then in suffused warm rosy weather Sublime them in sun-cloud together. The Knight, Sir Peter Paul, 'twas he, Hatted in rich felt, spick and span, Right comely in equipment free With court-air of Lord Chamberlain: "So! 'twere a canvas meet for donor. What say you, Paola of Verona?" -- Appealing here. "Namesake, 'tis good!" Laughed the frank master, gorgeous fellow, Whose raiment matched his artist-mood: Gold chain over russet velvet mellow -- A chain of honor; silver-gilt, Gleamed at his side a jewelled hilt. In feather high, in fortune free, Like to a Golden Pheasant, he. "By Paul, 'tis good, Sir Peter! Yet Our Hollander here his picture set In flushful light much like your own, Tho' but from kitchen-ingle thrown. -- But come to Venice, Gerard, -- do," Round turning genial on him there, "Her sunsets, -- there's hearth-light for you; And matter for you on the Square. To Venice, Gerard!" "O, we Dutch, Signor, know Venice, like her much. Our unction thence we got, some say, Tho' scarce our subjects, nor your touch." -- "To Saint Mark's again, Mynheer, and stay! We're Cyprus wine. -- But, Monsieur," turning To Watteau nigh; "You vow in France, This Pittoresque our friends advance, How seems it to your ripe discerning? If by a sketch it best were shown, A hand I'll try, yes, venture one: -- A chamber on the Grand Canal In season, say, of Carnival. A revel reigns; and look, the host Handsome as Caesar Borgia sits -- " "Then Borgia be it, bless your wits!" Snapped Spagnoletto, late engrossed In splenetic mood, now riling up; I'll lend you hits. And let His Grace Be launching, ay, the loving-cup Among the princes in the hall At Sinigaglia: You recall? I mean those gudgeons whom his smile Flattered to sup, ere yet awhile, In Hades with Domitian's lords. Let sunny frankness charm his air, His raiment lace with silver cords, Trick forth the 'Christian statesman' there. And, mind ye, don't forget the pall; Suggest it -- how politeness ended: Let lurk in shade of rearward wall Three bravoes by the arras splendid." VI "O, O, too picturesque by half!" Was Veronese's turning laugh; "Nay, nay: but see, on ample round Of marble table silver-bound Prince Comus, in mosaic, crowned; Vin d'oro there in crystal flutes -- Shapely as those, good host of mine, You summoned ere our Sillery fine We popped to Bacchus in salutes; -- Well, cavaliers in manhood's flower Fanning the flight o' the fleeing hour; Dames, too, like sportful dolphins free: -- Silks irridescent, wit and glee. Midmost, a Maltese knight of honor Toasting and clasping his Bella Donna; One arm round waist with pressure soft, Returned in throbbed transporting rhyme; A hand with minaret-glass aloft, Pinnacle of the jovial prime! What think? I daub, but daub it, true; And yet some dashes there may do." The Frank assented. But Jan Steen, With fellowly yet thoughtful mien, Puffing at skull-bowl pipe serene, "Come, a brave sketch, no mincing one! And yet, adzooks, to this I hold, Be it cloth of frieze or cloth of gold, All's picturesque beneath the sun; I mean, all's picture; death and life Pictures and pendants, nor at strife -- No, never to hearts that muse thereon. For me, 'tis life, plain life, I limn -- Not satin-glossed and flossy-fine (Our Turburg's forte here, good for him). No, but the life that's wine and brine, The mingled brew; the thing as spanned By Jan who kept the Leyden tavern And every rollicker fellowly scanned -- And, under his vineyard, lo, a cavern! But jolly is Jan, and never in picture Sins against sinners by Pharisee stricture. Jan o' the Inn, 'tis he, for ruth, Dashes with fun art's canvas of truth." Here Veronese swerved him round With glance well-bred of ruled surprise To mark a prodigal so profound, Nor too good-natured to be wise. Watteau, first complimenting Steen, Ignoring there his thriftless guise, Took up the fallen thread between. Tho' unto Veronese bowing -- Much pleasure at his sketch avowing; Yet fain he would in brief convey Some added words -- perchance, in way To vindicate his own renown, Modest and true in pictures done: "Ay, Signor; but -- your leave -- admit, Besides such scenes as well you've hit, Your Pittoresco too abounds In life of old patrician grounds For centuries kept for luxury mere: Ladies and lords in mimic dress Playing at shepherd and shepherdess By founts that sing The sweet o'the year! But, Signor -- how! what's this? you seem Drugged off in miserable dream. How? What impends?" "Barbaric doom! Worse than the Constable's sack of Rome!" "Ceil, ceil! The matter? tell us, do." "This cabbage Utility, parbleu! What shall insure the Carnival -- The gondola -- the Grand Canal? That palaced duct they'll yet deplete, Improve it to a huckster's street. And why? Forsooth, malarial!" There ending with an odd grimace, Reflected from the Frenchman's face. VII At such a sally, half grotesque, That indirectly seemed to favor His own view of the Picturesque, Suggesting Dutch canals in savor; Pleased Brouwer gave a porpoise-snort, A trunk-hose Triton trumping glee. Claude was but moved to smile in thought; The while Velasques, seldom free, Kept council with himself sedate, Isled in his ruffed Castilian state, Viewing as from aloft the mien Of Hals hilarious, Lippi, Steen, In chorus frolicking back the mirth Of Brouwer, careless child of earth; Salvator Rosa posing nigh With sombre-proud satiric eye. But Poussin, he, with antique air, Complexioned like a marble old, Unconscious kept in merit there Art's pure Acropolis in hold. For Durer, piteous good fellow -- (His Agnes seldom let him mellow) His Sampson locks, dense curling brown, Sideways unbrageously fell down, Enshrining so the Calvary face. Hals says, Angelico sighed to Durer, Taking to heart his desperate case, "Would, friend, that Paradise might allure her!" If Fra Angelico so could wish (That fleece that fed on lilies fine) Ah, saints! the head in Durer's dish, And how may hen-pecked seraph pine! For Leonardo, lost in dream, His eye absorbed the effect of light Rayed thro' red wine in glass -- a gleam Pink on the polished table bright; The subtle brain, convolved in snare, Inferring and over-refining there. But Michael Angelo, brief his stay, And, even while present, sat withdrawn. Irreverent Brouwer in sly way To Lippi whispered, "Brother good, How to be free and hob-nob with Yon broken-nosed old monolith Kin to the battered colossi-brood? Challenged by rays of sunny wine Not Memnon's stone in olden years Ere magic fled, had grudged a sign! Water he drinks, he munches bread. And on pale lymph of fame may dine. Cheaply is this Archangel fed!" VIII So Brouwer, the droll. But others sit Flinting at whiles scintillant wit On themes whose tinder takes the spark, Igniting some less light perchance -- The romanesque in men of mark; And this, Shall coming time enhance Through favoring influence, or abate Character picturesquely great -- That rumored age whose scouts advance? And costume too they touch upon: The Cid, his net-work shirt of mail, And Garibaldi's woolen one: In higher art would each avail So just expression nobly grace -- Declare the hero in the face? On themes that under orchards old The chapleted Greek would frank unfold, And Socrates, a spirit divine, Not alien held to cheerful wine, That reassurer of the soul -- On these they chat. But more whom they, Even at the Inn of Inns do meet -- The Inn with greens above the door: There the mahogany's waxed how bright, And, under chins such napkins white. Never comes the mart's intrusive roar, Nor heard the shriek that starts the train, Nor teasing telegraph clicks again, No news is cried, and hurry is no more -- For us, whose lagging cobs delay To win that tavern free from cumber, Old lads, in saddle shall we slumber? Here's Jack, whose genial sigh-and-laugh Where youth and years yblend in sway, Is like the alewife's half-and-half; Jack Gentian, in whose beard of gray Persistent threads of auburn tarry Like streaks of amber after day Down in the west; you'll not miscarry Attending here his bright-and-sombre Companion good to while the way With Naples in the Times of Bomba. END A SEQUEL Touching the Grand Canal's depletion If Veronese did but feign, Grave frolic of a gay Venetian Masking in Jeremy his vein; Believe, that others too may gambol In syllables as light -- yea, ramble All over each esthetic park, Playing, as on the violin, One random theme our dames to win -- The picturesque in Men of Mark. Nor here some lateral points they shun, And pirouette on this, for one: That rumored Age, whose scouts advance, Musters it one chivalric lance? Or shall it foster or abate Qualities picturesquely great? There's Garibaldi, off-hand hero, A very Cid Campeador, Lion-Nemesis of Naples' Nero -- But, tut, why tell that story o'er! A natural knight-errant, truly, Nor priding him in parrying fence, But charging at the helm-piece -- hence By statesmen deemed a lord unruly. Well now, in days the gods decree, Toward which the levellers scything move (The Sibyl's page consult, and see) Could this our Cid a hero prove? What meet emprise? What plumed career? No challenges from crimes flagitious When all is uniform in cheer; For Tarquins -- none would be extant, Or, if they were, would hardly daunt, Ferruling brats, like Dionysius; And Mulciber's sultans, overawed, In dumps and mumps, how far from menace, Tippling some claret about deal board Like Voltaire's kings at inn in Venice. In fine, the dragons penned or slain, What for St. George would then remain! A don of rich erratic tone, By jaunty junior club-men known As one, who buckram in demur, Applies then the Johnsonian Sir; 'Twas he that rollicked thus of late Filliped by turn of chance debate. Repeat he did, or vary more The same conceit, in devious way Of grandees with dyed whiskers hoar Tho' virile yet: "Assume, and say The Red Shirt Champion's natal day Is yet to fall in promised time, Millennium of the busy bee; How would he fare in such a Prime? By Jove, sir, not so bravely, see! Never he'd quit his trading trips, Perchance, would fag in trade at desk, Or, slopped in slimy slippery sludge, Lifelong on Staten Island drudge, Melting his tallow, Sir, dipping his dips, Scarce savoring much of the Picturesque!" "Pardon," here purled a cultured wight Lucid with transcendental light; "Pardon, but tallow none nor trade When, thro' this Iron Age's reign The Golden one comes in again; That's on the card." "She plays the spade! Delving days, Sir, heave in sight -- Digging days, Sir; and, sweet youth, They'll set on edge the sugary tooth: A treadmill -- Paradise they plight." Let be, and curb this rhyming race! -- Angel o' the Age! advance, God speed. Harvest us all good grain in seed; But sprinkle, do, some drops of grace Nor polish us into commonplace. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GIANT PUFFBALL by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SONNET by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS SAPPHO AND PHAON: 2. THE TEMPLE OF CHASTITY by MARY DARBY ROBINSON SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 5. ETERNAL by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE FORD OF TRANSFIGURATION by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |