Volume 8 — 1834
Reading edition
LINES Suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone
Composed 1834.—Published 1835
[This Portrait has hung for many years in our principal sitting-room, and represents J. Q.[1] as she was when a girl. The picture, though it is somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect: it is chiefly valuable, however, from the sentiment that pervades it. The anecdote of the saying of the monk in sight of Titian’s picture was told in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, first communicated to the public in this poem, the former portion of which I was composing at the time. Southey heard the story from Miss Hutchinson, and transferred it to the Doctor; but it is not easy to explain how my friend Mr. Rogers, in a note subsequently added to his Italy, was led to speak of the same remarkable words having many years before been spoken in his hearing by a monk or priest in front of a picture of the Last Supper, placed over a Refectory-table in a convent at Padua.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—Ed.
Beguiled into forgetfulness of care Due to the day’s unfinished task; of pen Or book regardless, and of that fair scene In Nature’s prodigality displayed Before my window, oftentimes and long 5 I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam Of beauty never ceases to enrich The common light; whose stillness charms the air, Or seems to charm it, into like repose; Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 10 Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits With emblematic purity attired In a white vest, white as her marble neck Is, and the pillar of the throat would be But for the shadow by the drooping chin 15 Cast into that recess—the tender shade, The shade and light, both there and every where, And through the very atmosphere she breathes, Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill That might from nature have been learnt in the hour 20 When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe’er Thou be that, kindling with a poet’s soul, Hast loved the painter’s true Promethean craft Intensely—from Imagination take 25 The treasure,—what mine eyes behold see thou, Even though the Atlantic ocean roll between. A silver line, that runs from brow to crown And in the middle parts the braided hair, Just serves to show how delicate a soil 30 The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes, Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky Whose azure depth their colour emulates, Must needs be conversant with upward looks, Prayer’s voiceless service; but now, seeking nought 35 And shunning nought, their own peculiar life Of motion they renounce, and with the head Partake its inclination towards earth In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 40 Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith? 45 Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon Crescent in simple loveliness serene, Has but approached the gates of womanhood, Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: 50 The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere, Will not be found. Her right hand, as it lies Across the slender wrist of the left arm Upon her lap reposing, holds—but mark How slackly, for the absent mind permits 55 No firmer grasp—a little wild-flower, joined As in a posy, with a few pale ears Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped And in their common birthplace sheltered it ’Till they were plucked together; a blue flower 60 Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed; But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, (Her Father told her so) in youth’s gay dawn 65 Her Mother’s favourite; and the orphan Girl, In her own dawn—a dawn less gay and bright, Loves it, while there in solitary peace She sits, for that departed Mother’s sake. —Not from a source less sacred is derived 70 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction through the face diffused And the whole person. Words have something told More than the pencil can, and verily More than is needed, but the precious Art 75 Forgives their interference—Art divine, That both creates and fixes, in despite Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! That posture, and the look of filial love 80 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Dearly united, might be swept away From this fair Portrait’s fleshly Archetype, Even by an innocent fancy’s slightest freak Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 85 To their lost place, or meet in harmony So exquisite; but here do they abide, Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality, 90 Stretched forth with trembling hope?—In every realm, From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, Thousands, in each variety of tongue That Europe knows, would echo this appeal; One above all, a Monk who waits on God 95 In the magnific Convent built of yore To sanctify the Escurial palace. He— Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, A British Painter (eminent for truth In character,[2] and depth of feeling, shown 100 By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, And are endeared to simple cottagers)— Came, in that service, to a glorious work,[3] Our Lord’s Last Supper, beautiful as when first The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian’s hand, 105 Graced the Refectory: and there, while both Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, The hoary Father in the Stranger’s ear Breathed out these words:—“Here daily do we sit, Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 110 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze Upon this solemn Company unmoved By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, 115 Until I cannot but believe that they— They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows.”[4] So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: 120 And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 125 Into Bethesda’s pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which[5] by the visitation was disturbed. ——But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well, 130 My Song’s Inspirer, once again farewell![6]
THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED
Composed 1834.—Published 1835.
One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—Ed.
Among a grave fraternity of Monks, For One, but surely not for One alone, Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter’s skill, Humbling the body, to exalt the soul; Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong 5 And dissolution and decay, the warm And breathing life of flesh, as if already Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced With no mean earnest of a heritage Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, 10 With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture! From whose serene companionship I passed Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; thou also— Though but a simple object, into light Called forth by those affections that endear 15 The private hearth; though keeping thy sole seat In singleness, and little tried by time, Creation, as it were, of yesterday— With a congenial function art endued For each and all of us, together joined 20 In course of nature under a low roof By charities and duties that proceed Out of the bosom of a wiser vow. To a like salutary sense of awe Or sacred wonder, growing with the power 25 Of meditation that attempts to weigh, In faithful scales, things and their opposites, Can thy enduring quiet gently raise A household small and sensitive,—whose love, Dependent as in part its blessings are 30 Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven.[7]
TO A CHILD Written in her Album[8]
Composed 1834.—Published 1835
[This quatrain was extempore on observing this image, as I had often done, on the lawn of Rydal Mount. It was first written down in the Album of my God-daughter, Rotha Quillinan.—I.F.]
In 1837 this was one of the “Inscriptions.” In 1845 it was transferred to the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.
Small service is true service while it lasts: Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one![9] The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.[10]
LINES Written in the Album of the Countess of Lonsdale,[11] Nov. 5, 1834
Composed 1834.—Published 1835
[This is a faithful picture of that amiable Lady, as she then was. The youthfulness of figure and demeanour and habits, which she retained in almost unprecedented degree, departed a very few years after, and she died without violent disease by gradual decay before she reached the period of old age.—I.F.]
This was placed, in 1845, among the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.
Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard, Among the Favoured, favoured not the least) Left, ’mid the Records of this Book inscribed, Deliberate traces, registers of thought And feeling, suited to the place and time 5 That gave them birth:—months passed, and still this hand, That had not been too timid to imprint Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired, Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee. And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth 10 The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself. Flowers are there many that delight to strive With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower, Yet are by nature careless of the sun Whether he shine on them or not; and some, 15 Where’er he moves along the unclouded sky, Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams: Others do rather from their notice shrink, Loving the dewy shade,—a humble band, Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth, 20 Congenial with thy mind and character, High-born Augusta! Witness Towers, and Groves! And Thou, wild Stream, that giv’st the honoured name[12] Of Lowther to this ancient Line, bear witness[13] From thy most secret haunts; and ye Parterres, 25 Which She is pleased and proud to call her own, Witness how oft upon my noble Friend Mute offerings, tribute from an inward sense Of admiration and respectful love, Have waited—till the affections could no more 30 Endure that silence, and broke out in song, Snatches of music taken up and dropt Like those self-solacing, those under, notes Trilled by the redbreast, when autumnal leaves Are thin upon the bough. Mine, only mine, 35 The pleasure was, and no one heard the praise, Checked, in the moment of its issue, checked And reprehended, by a fancied blush From the pure qualities that called it forth. Thus Virtue lives debarred from Virtue’s meed; 40 Thus, Lady, is retiredness a veil That, while it only spreads a softening charm O’er features looked at by discerning eyes, Hides half their beauty from the common gaze; And thus,[14] even on the exposed and breezy hill 45 Of lofty station, female goodness walks, When side by side with lunar gentleness, As in a cloister. Yet the grateful Poor (Such the immunities of low estate, Plain Nature’s enviable privilege, 50 Her sacred recompense for many wants) Open their hearts before Thee, pouring out All that they think and feel, with tears of joy; And benedictions not unheard in heaven: And friend in the ear of friend, where speech is free 55 To follow truth, is eloquent as they. Then let the Book receive in these prompt lines A just memorial; and thine eyes consent To read that they, who mark thy course, behold A life declining with the golden light 60 Of summer, in the season of sere leaves;[15] See cheerfulness undamped by stealing Time; See studied kindness flow with easy stream, Illustrated with inborn courtesy; And an habitual disregard of self 65 Balanced by vigilance for others’ weal. And shall the Verse not tell of lighter gifts With these ennobling attributes conjoined And blended, in peculiar harmony, By Youth’s surviving spirit? What agile grace! 70 A nymph-like liberty, in nymph-like form, Beheld with wonder; whether floor or path Thou tread; or sweep—borne on the managed steed—[16] Fleet as the shadows, over down or field, Driven by strong winds at play among the clouds. 75 Yet one word more—one farewell word—a wish Which came, but it has passed into a prayer— That, as thy sun in brightness is declining, So—at an hour yet distant for their sakes Whose tender love, here faltering on the way 80 Of a diviner love, will be forgiven— So may it set in peace, to rise again For everlasting glory won by faith.