# The Vow of the Peacock and Other Poems/The Painter

THE PAINTER.
I know not which is the most fatal gift, Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled By stars of bright aspect and evil influence.
He was a lonely and neglected child! His cheek was colourless, save when the flush Of strong emotion mastered its still whiteness; His dark eyes seemed all heaviness and gloom, So rarely were they raised. His mother's love Was for her other children: they were fair, And had health's morning hues and sunny looks. She had not seen him, when he watched the sun Setting at eve, like an idolater, Until his cheek grew crimson in the light Of the all-radiant heaven, and his eyes
Were passionately eloquent, all filled With earth's most glorious feelings. And his father, A warrior and a hunter, one whose grasp Was ever on the bridle or the brand, Had no pride in a boy whose joy it was To sit for hours by a fountain side Listening its low and melancholy song. Or wander through the gardens silently, As if with leaves and flowers alone he held Aught of companionship. In his first years They sent him to a convent, for they said Its solitude would suit with Guido's mood. And there he dwelt, while treasuring those rich thoughts That are the food on which young genius lives. He rose to watch the sunlight over Rome Break from its purple shadows, making glad
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers, Ruins, and palaces, seem as they looked Back on departed time. Then in the gloom Of his own convent's silent burying ground, Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses mourned, He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day-dreams, Not so much hopes as fancies. Then at eve, When through the painted windows the red sun Rainbowed the marble floor with radiant hues, Where spread the ancient church's stately arch, He stayed, till the deep music of the hymn, Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes, Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell He went, and through the casement's iron bars The moon looked on him, tenderly as Love, Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall
There hung one lovely portrait, and for hours Would Guido, in the fulness of his heart, Kneel, watching till he wept. The subject was A dying Magdalene. Her long black hair Spread round her like a shroud, one pale thin hand Pillowed a cheek as thin and pale, and scarce The blue light of the eyes was visible For the death dampness on the darkened lids;— As one more effort to look on the cross, Which seemed just falling from the fainting arm, And they would close for ever. In that look There was a painter's immortality, And Guido felt it deeply, for a gift Like his whose work that was, was given him,— A gift of beauty and of power,—and soon He lived but in the exquisite creations
His pencil called to life. But as his thoughts Took wider range, he languished to behold More of a world he thought must be so fair, So filled with glorious shapes. It chanced that he Whose hand had traced that pale sad loveliness, Came to the convent; with rejoicing wonder He marked how like an unknown mine, whose gold Gathers in silence, had young Guido's mind Increased in lonely richness; every day New veins of splendid thought sprang into life. And Guido left his convent cell with one Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes Of marvel and enchantment. And then first Did Guido feel how very precious praise Is to young genius, like sunlight on flowers, Ripening them into fruit. And time pass'd on;—
The lonely and neglected child became One whom all Rome was proud of, and he dwelt There in the sunshine of his spreading fame.  There was a melancholy beauty shed Over his pictures, as the element In which his genius lived was sorrow. Love He made most lovely, but yet ever sad; Passionate partings, such as wring the heart Till tears are life-blood; meetings, when the cheek Has lost all hope of health in the long parting; The grave, with one mourning in solitude: These made his fame, and were his excellence,— The painter of deep tears. He had just gained The summer of his glory and of his days, When his remembering art was called to give A longer memory to one whose life
Was but a thread. Her history may be told In one word—love. And what has love e'er been But misery to woman? Still she wished— It was a dying fancy which betrayed How much, though known how false its god had been, Her soul clung to its old idolatry,— To send her pictured semblance to the false one. She hoped—how love will hope!—it might recall The young and lovely girl his cruelty Had worn to this dim shadow; it might wake Those thousand fond and kind remembrances Which he had utterly abandoned, while The true heart he had treasured next his own A little time, had never ceased to beat For only him, until it broke. She leant Beside a casement when first Guido looked
Upon her wasted beauty. 'T was the brow, The Grecian outline in its perfect grace, That he had learnt to worship in his youth, By gazing on that Magdalene, whose face Was yet a treasure in his memory; But sunken were the temples,—they had lost Their ivory roundness, yet still clear as day The veins shone through them, shaded by the braids, Just simply parted back, of the dark hair, Where grief's white traces mocked at youth. A flush, As shame, deep shame, had once burnt on her cheek, Then lingered there for ever, looked like health Offering hope, vain hope, to the pale lip; Like the rich crimson of the evening sky, Brightest when night is coming. Guido took Just one slight sketch; next morning she was dead!
Yet still he painted on, until his heart Grew to the picture,—it became his world,— He lived but in its beauty, made his art Sacred to it alone. No more he gave To the glad canvass green and summer dreams Of the Italian valleys; traced no more The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, looked And caught the spirit of fine poetry From glorious statues: these were pass'd away. Shade after shade, line after line, each day Gave life to the sweet likeness. Guido dwelt In intense worship on his own creation, Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night— The portrait was just finished, save a touch, A touch to give the dark light of the eyes—
He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd That a fair creature came and kissed his brow, And bade him follow her: he knew the look, And rose. Awakening, he found himself Kneeling before the portrait:—'twas so fair He deemed it lived, and press'd his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,— Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!