The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1872-06-25
POETRY.
The Old Sculptor and His Pupil.


Can wonder Donatellos eyes were dim WIN oilSs-
full tears, a., ,, of
When, thing of perfect beauty stood the dream Oh
Growing ali his widest longings- cen his
lghtest fears?
Waking wild ideal warnings, weary years the dream
CATERING ever strength and beauty in the artists
Till excess of wondrous sweetness made it almost
seem like PAIN
And at last its fit expression i'll some outward type
Beauty thiing all the pulses lonely days and nights
he wrought,
And full well the Inner Vision had the pad marble
caught.
Calm it stood-a statued image of the young impas-
stoned saint
On whose mortal beauty fingered not the shade OF
To whose mortal eyes heavens vision seemed no Ion
ger dim and faint.
And the passing shadows fitting lightly Ger the ear
On each youthful, godke feature left strangely liv
Till It seemed St. George was standing in the passive
marbles place.
Yet. methinks DER something nobler might those
hayward shadows glide, :
On beauty higher rarer, well contented might they
Vixen another, rapt, before it, stood by Donatello's
side.
He was one among his pupils, scarce to manhood
All his flowers in Fame's bright chapets were, asyet
Yet the master felt their blooming would be brighter
than his own.
For there seemed around his forehead and within his
eye to glow
Visions far more deep and wondrous than ere scup-
All too grand for outward sembance were thy Wis
ions, Angelo!
And behind the noblest figure, born beneath thy po-
Still in wondrous, knocking beauty, shall something
nobler stand;
Shadowy. as the forms upspringing meath some
dread magician's wand.
Then upon that lofty forehead, Cares rude fingers
had not wrought
Not yet his iron sternness had those proud dark
Dreaming boy was he who stood there, rapt in deep
and silent thought
'Nay-what think'st thou?" said the master, ''seems
it not almost divine?"
In his eye the glow of genius seemed with clearer
As he answered, ''only thing does it lack-this
work Of thine"
'One thing lacks it'-did not matchless stand that
form Of youthful grace?
Could more firm and high endeavor leave round lips
of marble trace?
Could more pure and saint-lke passion light that
pale and up-turned face?-
Neer fault could he discover there, to mar Its per-
feet claim,
Though anew he searched and pondered often as
again there came,
Grown each year heavier burden, tales of Buona-
rottis fame.
And, in spoth, heavy burden it had grown to be
that day,
When he knet beside the pallet where the pale old
sculptor lay
Waiting patiently the moment death should bear his
soul away.
Patient-yet, within his spirit seemed some vexing
thought to bide,
For amid his dying murmurs-"What lacks it?"
faint he sighed
"Only speechP' said Buonarotti-With smile the
old man died.
"Only speech!" o mighty spirit! who through time
didst nobly send,
Thoughts whose grandeur flower natures rather
guess than comprehend
With what earthly mould or being e'er may perfect
utterance blend!
All our loftiest thoughts and visions seem for want
of language LOST
Longingly read the story of the tongues Of flame
which crossed
Lips of fervid Galileans on the day of Pentecost.
All the Holy Spirit tells us we may never hope to
teach
Little of the hearts affection lips or eyes
reach:-
More than ,Donatellos statue do our stammering
tongues need speech.