Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE OLD COLLECTOR, by BEATRICE HANSCOM


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE OLD COLLECTOR, by                    
First Line: Tis strange to look across the street
Last Line: For him are ended.
Subject(s): Art Patronage; Collectors & Collecting; Death; Neighbors; Patrons Of The Arts; Dead, The


'TIS strange to look across the street
And feel that we no more shall greet
Our middle-aged, precise, and neat,
Old-fashioned neighbor.
It seems, in his unlighted hall,
His much-prized pictures on the wall
Must miss his presence, and recall
His loving labor.

His manner was serene and fine,
Fashioned on some Old-World design.
His wit grew keener with the wine,
And kindlier after;
And when the revelry rang high,
No one could make more apt reply;
Yet, though they sometimes marked his sigh,
None heard his laughter.

He held as foolish him who dotes
On politics or petticoats;
He vowed he'd hear no talk of votes
Or silly scandals.
No journeys tempted him; he swore
He held his world within his door,
And there he'd dwell till life was o'er,
Secure from vandals.

"Why should I roam the world again?"
He said. "Domingo shows me Spain;
The dust of travel then were vain
What springtime chances
To match my Corot there! One glance
Is worth a year of actual France.
The real ne'er equals the romance.
Nor fact our fancies."

His walls were decked with maidens fair—
A Henner with rich auburn hair;
A Reynolds with the stately air
That fits a beauty;
There glanced a Greuze with girlish grace;
And yonder, with the strong, calm face,
The peasant sister of her race,
Whose life is duty.

He valued most the sunny day
Because it lighted his Dupré,
And showed his small Meissonier
In proper fashion.
And tender was the glance he bent
Upon his missal's ornament,
Whereon some patient monk had spent
His artist passion.

I used to love to see him pass
His fingers o'er some rare old glass.
He never took delight en masse;
He loved each treasure:
The precious bronzes from Japan,
The rugs from towered Ispahan,
His rose-tint Sèvres, his famous fan—
Each had its pleasure.

And so he held that Art was all;
Yet when Death made the solemn call,
Before the desk in his long hall
They found him sitting.
Within the hands clasped on his breast
An old daguerreotype was pressed—
A sweet-faced, smiling girl, and dressed
In frills befitting.

Naught of his story can we know,
Nor whose the fault so long ago,
Nor with what meed of weal or woe
His love was blended.
Yet o'er his rare Delft mantel-tiles
Bellini's sweet Madonna smiles
As though she knew the weary miles
For him are ended.





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