Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN: PROEM. TO THE ARTIST, by BAYARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PICTURE OF ST. JOHN: PROEM. TO THE ARTIST, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Because no other dream my childhood knew
Last Line: In double faith, and from a twofold call!
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Art & Artists; Beauty; Poetry & Poets; Youth


I.

BECAUSE no other dream my childhood knew
Than your bright Goddess sends, -- that earliest
Her face I saw, and from her bounteous breast,
All others dry, the earliest nurture drew;
And since the hope, so lovely, was not true,
To write my life in colors, -- win a place
Among your ranks, though humble, yet with grace
That might accord me brotherhood with you:

II.

Because the dream, thus cherished, gave my life
Its first faint sense of beauty, and became,
Even when the growing years to other strife
Led forth my feet, a shy, secluded flame:
And ye received me, when our pathways met,
As one long parted, but of kindred fate;
And in one heaven our kindred stars are set;
To you, my Brethren, this be dedicate!

III.

And though some sportive nymph the channel turned,
And led to other fields mine infant rill,
The sense of fancied destination still
Leaps in its waves, and will not be unlearned.
I charge not Fate with having done me wrong;
Much hath she granted, though so much was spurned;
But leave the keys of Color, silent long,
And pour my being through the stops of Song!

IV.

Even as one breath the organ-pipe compels
To yield that note which through the minster swells
In chorded thunder, and the hollow lyre
Beneath its gentler touches to awake
The airy monotones that fan desire,
And thrills the fife with blood of battle, -- so
Our natures from one source their music take,
And side by side to one far Beauty flow!

V.

And I have measured, in fraternal pride,
Your reverence, your faith, your patient power
Of stern self-abnegation; and have tried
The range between your brightest, darkest hour,
The path of chill neglect, and that so fair
With praise upspringing like a wind-sown flower:
But, whether thorns or amaranths ye wear,
Your speech is mine, your sacrifice, your prayer!

VI.

Permit me, therefore, ye who nearest stand,
Among the worthiest, and kindliest known
In contact of our lives, to take the hand
Whose grasp assures me I am not alone;
For thus companioned, I shall find the tone
Of flowing song, and all my breath command.
Your names I veil from those who should not see,
Not from yourselves, my Friends, and not from me!

VII.

You, underneath whose brush the autumn day
Draws near the sunset which it never finds, --
Whose art the smoke of Indian Summer binds
Beyond the west-wind's power to breathe away:
Who fix the breakers in their gifted grace
And stretch the sea-horizon, dim and gray,
I'll call you OPAL, -- so your tints enchase
The pearly atmospheres wherein they play.

VIII.

And you, who love the brown October field,
The lingering leaves that flutter as they cling,
And each forlorn but ever-lovely thing, --
To whom elegiac Autumn hath revealed
Her sweetest dirges, BLOODSTONE: for the hue
Of sombre meadows to your palette cleaves,
And lowering skies, with sunlight breaking through,
And flecks of crimson on the scattered leaves!

IX.

You, TOPAZ, clasp the full-blown opulence
Of Summer: many a misty mountain-range
Or smoky valley, specked with warrior-tents,
Basks on your canvas: then, with grander change,
We climb to where your mountain twilight gleams
In spectral pomp, or nurse the easeful sense
Which through your Golden Day forever dreams
By lakes and sunny hills, and falling streams.

X.

You banish color from your cheerful cell,
O PAROS! but a stern imperial form
Stands in the marble moonlight where you dwell,
A Poet's head, with grand Ionian beard,
And Phidian dreams, that shine against the storm
Of toilful life, the white robe o'er them cast
Of breathless Beauty: yours the art, endeared
To men and gods, first born, enduring last.

XI.

You, too, whom how to name I may not guess,
Except the jacinth and the ruby, blent,
The native warmth of life might represent,
Which, drawn from barns and homesteads, you express,
Or vintage revels, round the maple-tree;
Or when the dusky race you quaintly dress
In art that gives them finer liberty, --
Made by your pencil, ere by battle, free!

XII.

Where'er my feet have strayed, whatever shore
I visit, there your venturous footprints cling.
From Chimborazo unto Labrador
One sweeps the Continent with eagle wing,
To dip his brush in tropic noon, or fires
Of Arctic night; one sets his seal upon
Far Colorado's cleft, colossal spires,
And lone, snow-kindled cones of Oregon!

XIII.

Another through the mystic moonlight floats
That silvers Venice; and another sees
The blazoned galleys and the gilded boats
Bring home her Doges: Andalusian leas,
Gray olive-slopes, and mountains sun-embrowned
Entice another, and from ruder ground
Of old Westphalian homes another brings
Enchanted memories of the meanest things.

XIV.

To each and all, the hand of fellowship!
A poet's homage (should that title fall
From other lips than mine) to each and all!
For, whether this pale star of Song shall dip
To swift forgetfulness, or burn beside
Accepted lamps of Art's high festival,
Its flame was kindled at our shrines allied,
In double faith, and from a twofold call!






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