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A Bust Seen in the Studio of an Artist at Rome
A SUMMER night in Rome,— | |
| Dear Rome of Art and Song and Love the home! | |
| An eve of rare delight,— | |
| A murmuring, soft, immeasurable night, | |
| A summer night in Rome! | 5 |
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| No frigid Northern skies | |
| Chill us from far, mocking our longing eyes | |
| And yearning sympathies,— | |
| Ah, no! the heaven bends kind and clasping here, | |
| And in the ether clear | 10 |
| The stars seem warm and near. | |
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| This is the artist’s room, | |
| Hushed in its purple gloom,— | |
| The dim birth-chamber of his vital thought, | |
| Which, into marble wrought, | 15 |
| Asserts sublime and beautiful, control, | |
| Charming the raptured sight, | |
| Hushing the world in wondering delight, | |
| Touching the fainting soul, | |
| Fettered and cramped by sin and grief and strife, | 20 |
| To newer, holier life. | |
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| Pulsing along the air, | |
| A strange and sacred presence seems to fill | |
| The studio dark and still; | |
| Dark, saving only where | 25 |
| Through the broad window, with a wondrous glow | |
| Of golden light, unhindered in its flow, | |
| Looks in the mellow moon, | |
| The bright Italian moon;— | |
| Still, save the tremor light | 30 |
| Which the thick vines yield to the wooing night, | |
| And the soul-soothing tune | |
| Breathing among the distant olive-trees, | |
| Where bland airs sing their dreamful symphonies, | |
| Their chants of Love and June. | 35 |
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| Behold! a vision there, | |
| Where the slant moonlight floods the fragrant air,— | |
| A dreaming marble face | |
| Exquisite in its grace, | |
| Gentle and young and fair, | 40 |
| Amid its luminous waves of flowing hair; | |
| A brow with earnest meaning softly fraught | |
| Bowed in a trance of thought, | |
| As though, enraptured by some vision rare, | |
| Some picture in the air, | 45 |
| The musing eyes see what is else unseen; | |
| And while it lingers there, | |
| The beautiful lips serene | |
| Seem parting unaware | |
| To utter softly, “Stay! thou art so fair!” | 50 |
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| This is the Artist’s Dream, | |
| This sweet and noble face. Does it not seem | |
| A word might break the charm,— | |
| Might startle the dropped lids with quick alarm, | |
| Might wake warm color in the snowy cheek | 55 |
| And make the dreamer speak? | |
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| Nay, breathe more softly,—hush! | |
| Did not the rare lips move? | |
| Pygmalion trembled when the rosy flush | |
| Of conscious being thrilled his marble love; | 60 |
| I dare not stay to prove | |
| If I am stronger. So, farewell to thee, | |
| Most dainty dream! The artist will not see | |
| That thou hast lost by giving unto me | |
| A beautiful memory, | 65 |
| A joy forevermore! | |
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| Now close the studio door, | |
| And leave the haunted room | |
| To all pure spirits dear; | |
| Leave not a footprint on the sacred floor, | 70 |
| Wake not the echoes in the classic gloom, | |
| The artist’s soul is here, | |
| Where in the eloquent silence, strange and dim, | |
| His beautiful creations wait for him. | |
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