Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ELISABETTA SIRANI, 1665, by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Just to begin, - and end! So much, - no more Last Line: Safe, where old friends will pass; and still near home! Alternate Author Name(s): Meredith, Owen; Lytton, 1st Earl Of; Lytton, Robert Subject(s): Sirani, Elisabetta (1638-1665); Paintings & Painters | ||||||||
JUST to begin, -- and end! so much, -- no more! To touch upon the very point at last Where life should cling: to feel the solid shore Safe; where, the seething sea's strong toil o'erpast, Peace seemed appointed; then, with all the store Half-undivulged of the gleaned ocean cast, Like a discouraged wave's on the bleak strand, Where what appeared some temple (whose glad Priest To gather ocean's sparkling gift should stand, Bidding the wearied wave, from toil releast, Sleep in the marble harbors bathed with bland And quiet sunshine, flowing from full east Among the laurels) proves the dull blind rock's Fantastic front, -- to die, a disallowed, Dasht purpose: which the scornful shorecliff mocks, Even as it sinks; and all its wealth bestowed In vain, -- mere food to feed, perchance, stray flocks Of the coarse sea-gull! weaving its own shroud Of idle foam, swift ceasing to be seen! -- Sad, sad, my father! ... yet it comes to this. For I am dying. All that might have been -- That must have been! ... the days, so hard to miss, So sure to come! ...eyes, lips, that seemed to lean In on me at my work, and almost kiss The curls bowed o'er it, ...lost! O, never doubt I should have lived to know them all again, And from the crowd of praisers single out For special love those forms beheld so plain Beforehand. When my pictures, borne about Bologna, to the church doors, led their train Of kindling faces, turned, as by they go, Up to these windows, -- standing at your side Unseen, to see them, I (be sure!) should know And welcome back those eyes and lips, descried Long since in fancy: for I loved them so, And so believed them! Think! ... Bologna's pride My paintings! ...Guido Reni's mantle mine... And I, the maiden artist, prized among The masters, ...ah, that dream was too divine For earth to realize! I die so young, All this escapes me! God, the gift be Thine, Not man's then...better so! That throbbing throng Of human faces fades out fast. Even yours, Beloved ones, the inexorable Fate (For all our vowed affections!) scarce endures About me. Must I go, then, desolate Out from among you? Nay, my work insures Fit guerdon somewhere, -- though the gift must wait! Had I lived longer, life would sure have set Earth's gift of fame in safety. But I die. Death must make safe the heavenly guerdon yet. I trusted time for immortality, -- There was my error! Father, never let Doubt of reward confuse my memory! Besides, -- I have done much: and what is done Is well done. All my heart conceived, my hand Made fast...mild martyr, saint, and weeping nun, And truncheoned prince, and warrior with bold brand, Yet keep my life upon them; -- as the sun, Though fallen below the limits of the land, Still sees on every form of purple cloud His painted presence. Flaring August's here, September's coming! Summer's broidered shroud Is borne away in triumph by the year: Red Autumn drops, from all his branches bowed, His careless wealth upon the costly bier. We must be cheerful. Set the casement wide. One last look o'er the places I have loved, One last long look! ... Bologna, O my pride Among thy palaced streets! The days have moved Pleasantly o'er us. What has been denied To our endeavor? Life goes unreproved. To make the best of all things, is the best Of all means to be happy. This I know, But cannot phrase it finely. The night's rest The day's toil sweetens. Flowers are warmed by snow. All's well God wills. Work out this grief. Joy's zest Itself is salted with a touch of woe. There's nothing comes to us may not be borne, Except a too great happiness. But this Comes rarely. Though I know that you will mourn The little maiden helpmate you must miss, Thanks be to God, I leave you not forlorn. There should be comfort in this dying kiss. Let Barbara keep my colors for herself. I'm sorry that Lucia went away In some unkindness. 'T was a cheerful elf! Send her my scarlet ribands, mother; say I thought of her. My palette's on the shelf, Surprised, no doubt, at such long holiday. In the south window, on the easel, stands My picture for the Empress Eleanore, Still wanting some few touches, these weak hands Must leave to others. Yet there's time before The year ends. And the Empress' own commands You'll find in writing. Barbara's brush is more Like mine than Anna's; let her finish it. O, ...and there's 'Maso, our poor fisherman! You'll find my work done for him: something fit To hang among his nets: you liked the plan My fancy took to please our friend's dull wit, Scarce brighter than his old tin fishing-can.... St. Margaret, stately as a ship full sail, Leading a dragon by an azure band; The ribbon flutters gayly in the gale; The monster follows the Saint's guiding hand, Wrinkled to one grim smile from head to tail: For in his horny hide his heart grows bland. -- Where are you, dear ones? ... 'T is the dull, faint chill, Which soon will shrivel into burning pain! Dear brother, sisters, father, mother, -- still Stand near me! While your faces fixt remain Within my sense, vague fears of unknown ill Are softly crowded out, ...and yet, 't is vain! Greet Giulio Banzi; greet Antonio; greet Bartolomeo, kindly. When I'm gone, And in the school-room, as of old, you meet, -- Ah, yes! you'll miss a certain merry tone, A cheerful face, a smile that should complete The vague place in the household picture grown To an aspect so familiar, it seems strange That aught should alter there. Mere life, at least, Could not have brought the shadow of a change Across it. Safely the warm years increast Among us. I have never sought to range From our small table at earth's general feast, To higher places: never loved but you, Dear family of friends, except my art: Nor any form save those my pencil drew E'er quivered in the quiet of my heart. I die a maiden to Madonna true, And would have so continued....There, the smart, The pang, the faintness! ... Ever, as I lie Here, with the Autumn sunset on my face, And heavy in my curls (whilst it, and I, Together, slipping softly from the place We played in, pensively prepare to die), A low warm humming simmers in my ears, -- Old Summer afternoons! faint fragments rise Out of my broken life...at times appears Madonna-like a moon in mellow skies: The three Fates with the spindle and the shears: The Grand Duke Cosmo with the Destinies: St. Margaret with her dragon: fitful cheers Along the Via Urbana come and go: Bologna with her towers! ... Then all grows dim, And shapes itself anew, softly and slow, To cloistered glooms through which the silver hymn Eludes the sensitive silence; whilst below The south west window, just one single, slim, And sleepy sunbeam, powders with waved gold A lane of gleamy mist along the gloom, Whereby to find its way, through manifold Magnificence, to Guido Reni's tomb, Which, set in steadfast splendor, I behold. And all the while, I scent the incense fume, Till dizzy grows the brain, and dark the eye Beneath the eyelid. When the end is come, There, by his tomb (our master's) let me lie, Somewhere, not too far off; beneath the dome Of our own Lady of the Rosary: Safe, where old friends will pass; and still near home! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...1801: AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE ENVOY TO CONSTANTINOPLE by RICHARD HOWARD VENETIAN INTERIOR, 1889 by RICHARD HOWARD THERE IS A GOLD LIGHT IN CERTAIN OLD PAINTINGS by DONALD JUSTICE DUTCH INTERIORS by JANE KENYON INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 3 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE CHINA PAINTERS by TED KOOSER ELEGY FOR SOL LEWITT by ANN LAUTERBACH ON THE SEPARATION OF ADAM AND EVE by TIMOTHY LIU THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: AUX ITALIENS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: THE CHESSBOARD by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |
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