Thomas Moore- Collected Poetical Works

by Thomas Moore

  “ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst,

  “Thro’ every spot her princely TIBER laves,

  “By living human things — the deadliest, worst,

  “This earth engenders — tyrants and their slaves!

  “And we — oh shame! — we who have pondered o’er

  “The patriot’s lesson and the poet’s lay;2

  “Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,

  “Tracking our country’s glories all the way —

  “Even we have tamely, basely kist the ground

  “Before that Papal Power, — that Ghost of Her,

  “The World’s Imperial Mistress — sitting crowned

  “And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre!3

  “But this is past: — too long have lordly priests

  “And priestly lords led us, with all our pride

  “Withering about us — like devoted beasts,

  “Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.

  “’Tis o’er — the dawn of our deliverance breaks!

  “Up from his sleep of centuries awakes

  “The Genius of the Old Republic, free

  “As first he stood, in chainless majesty,

  “And sends his voice thro’ ages yet to come,

  “Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!”

  1 Rienzi.

  2 The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning “Spirto gentil,” is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

  3 This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:— “For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?”

  EXTRACT XIV.

  Rome.

  Fragment of a Dream. — The great Painters supposed to be Magicians. — The

  Beginnings of the Art. — Gildings on the Glories and Draperies. —

  Improvements under Giotto, etc. — The first Dawn of the true Style in

  Masaccio. — Studied by all the great Artists who followed him. — Leonardo da

  Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting. — His Knowledge of

  Mathematics and of Music. — His female heads all like each other. —

  Triangular Faces. — Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc. — Picture of Vanity and

  Modesty. — His chef-d’oeuvre, the Last Supper. — Faded and almost

  effaced.

  Filled with the wonders I had seen

  In Rome’s stupendous shrines and halls,

  I felt the veil of sleep serene

  Come o’er the memory of each scene,

  As twilight o’er the landscape falls.

  Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,

  But such as suits a poet’s rest —

  That sort of thin, transparent sleep,

  Thro’ which his day-dreams shine the best.

  Methought upon a plain I stood,

  Where certain wondrous men, ’twas said,

  With strange, miraculous power endued,

  Were coming each in turn to shed

  His art’s illusions o’er the sight

  And call up miracles of light.

  The sky above this lonely place,

  Was of that cold, uncertain hue,

  The canvas wears ere, warmed apace,

  Its bright creation dawns to view.

  But soon a glimmer from the east

  Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;1

  And as the feeble light increased,

  Strange figures moved across the sky,

  With golden glories deckt and streaks

  Of gold among their garments’ dyes;2

  And life’s resemblance tinged their cheeks,

  But naught of life was in their eyes; —

  Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets,

  Borne slow along Rome’s mournful streets.

  But soon these figures past away;

  And forms succeeded to their place

  With less of gold in their array,

  But shining with more natural grace,

  And all could see the charming wands

  Had past into more gifted hands.

  Among these visions there was one,3

  Surpassing fair, on which the sun,

  That instant risen, a beam let fall,

  Which thro’ the dusky twilight trembled.

  And reached at length the spot where all

  Those great magicians stood assembled.

  And as they turned their heads to view

  The shining lustre, I could trace

  The bright varieties it threw

  On each uplifted studying face:4

  While many a voice with loud acclaim

  Called forth, “Masaccio” as the name

  Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised

  This miracle on which all gazed.

  ’Twas daylight now — the sun had risen

  From out the dungeon of old Night. —

  Like the Apostle from his prison

  Led by the Angel’s hand of light;

  And — as the fetters, when that ray

  Of glory reached them, dropt away.5

  So fled the clouds at touch of day!

  Just then a bearded sage came forth,6

  Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand,

  To trace upon the dusky earth

  Strange learned figures with his wand;

  And oft he took the silver lute

  His little page behind him bore,

  And waked such music as, when mute,

  Left in the soul a thirst for more!

  Meanwhile his potent spells went on,

  And forms and faces that from out

  A depth of shadow mildly shone

  Were in the soft air seen about.

  Tho’ thick as midnight stars they beamed,

  Yet all like living sisters seemed,

  So close in every point resembling

  Each other’s beauties — from the eyes

  Lucid as if thro’ crystal trembling,

  Yet soft as if suffused with sighs,

  To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin,

  Lovelily tapering, less and less,

  Till by this very charm’s excess,

  Like virtue on the verge of sin,

  It touched the bounds of ugliness.

  Here lookt as when they lived the shades

  Of some of Arno’s dark-eyed maids —

  Such maids as should alone live on

  In dreams thus when their charms are gone:

  Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes

  A painter for whole years might gaze,7

  Nor find in all his pallet’s dyes

  One that could even approach their blaze!

  Here float two spirit shapes,8 the one,

  With her white fingers to the sun

  Outspread as if to ask his ray

  Whether it e’er had chanced to play

  On lilies half so fair as they!

  This self-pleased nymph was Vanity —

  And by her side another smiled,

  In form as beautiful as she,

  But with that air subdued and mild,

  That still reserve of purity,

  Which is to beauty like the haze

  Of evening to some sunny view,

  Softening such charms as it displays

  And veiling others in that hue,

  Which fancy only can see thro’!

  This phantom nymph, who could she be,

  But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

  Long did the learned enchanter stay

  To weave his spells and still there past,

  As in the lantern’s shifting play

  Group after group in close array,

  Each fairer, grander, than the last.

  But the great triumph of his power
<
br />   Was yet to come: — gradual and slow,

  (As all that is ordained to tower

  Among the works of man must grow,)

  The sacred vision stole to view,

  In that half light, half shadow shown,

  Which gives to even the gayest hue

  A sobered, melancholy tone.

  It was a vision of that last,9

  Sorrowful night which Jesus past

  With his disciples when he said

  Mournfully to them— “I shall be

  “Betrayed by one who here hath fed

  “This night at the same board with me.”

  And tho’ the Saviour in the dream

  Spoke not these words, we saw them beam

  Legibly in his eyes (so well

  The great magician workt his spell),

  And read in every thoughtful line

  Imprinted on that brow divine.

  The meek, the tender nature, grieved,

  Not angered to be thus deceived —

  Celestial love requited ill

  For all its care, yet loving still —

  Deep, deep regret that there should fall

  From man’s deceit so foul a blight

  Upon that parting hour — and all

  His Spirit must have felt that night.

  Who, soon to die for human-kind,

  Thought only, mid his mortal pain,

  How many a soul was left behind

  For whom he died that death in vain!

  Such was the heavenly scene — alas!

  That scene so bright so soon should pass

  But pictured on the humid air,

  Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;10

  And storms came on, that, cold and rough,

  Scattered its gentlest glories all —

  As when the baffling winds blow off

  The hues that hang o’er Terni’s fall, —

  Till one by one the vision’s beams

  Faded away and soon it fled.

  To join those other vanisht dreams

  That now flit palely ‘mong the dead, —

  The shadows of those shades that go.

  Around Oblivion’s lake below!

  1 The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

  2 Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

  3 The works of Masaccio. — For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds’s twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

  4 All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

  5 “And a light shined in the prison … and his chains fell off from his hands.” — Acts.

  6 Leonardo da Vinci.

  7 He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

  8 Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

  9 The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

  10 Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

  EXTRACT XV.

  Rome.

  Mary Magdalen. — Her Story. — Numerous Pictures of her. — Correggio — Guido — Raphael, etc. — Canova’s two exquisite Statues. — The Somariva Magdalen. — Chantrey’s Admiration of Canova’s Works.

  No wonder, MARY, that thy story

  Touches all hearts — for there we see thee.

  The soul’s corruption and its glory,

  Its death and life combine in thee.

  From the first moment when we find

  Thy spirit haunted by a swarm

  Of dark desires, — like demons shrined

  Unholily in that fair form, —

  Till when by touch of Heaven set free,

  Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold

  (So oft the gaze of BETHANY),

  And covering in their precious fold

  Thy Saviour’s feet didst shed such tears

  As paid, each drop, the sins of years! —

  Thence on thro’ all thy course of love

  To Him, thy Heavenly Master, — Him

  Whose bitter death-cup from above

  Had yet this cordial round the brim,

  That woman’s faith and love stood fast

  And fearless by Him to the last: —

  Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine!

  Thou wert of all the chosen one,

  Before whose eyes that Face Divine

  When risen from the dead first shone;

  That thou might’st see how, like a cloud,

  Had past away its mortal shroud,

  And make that bright revealment known

  To hearts less trusting than thy own.

  All is affecting, cheering, grand;

  The kindliest record ever given,

  Even under God’s own kindly hand,

  Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

  No wonder, MARY, that thy face,

  In all its touching light of tears,

  Should meet us in each holy place,

  Where Man before his God appears,

  Hopeless — were he not taught to see

  All hope in Him who pardoned thee!

  No wonder that the painter’s skill

  Should oft have triumpht in the power

  Of keeping thee all lovely still

  Even in thy sorrow’s bitterest hour;

  That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse

  His melting shadows round thy form;

  That GUIDO’S pale, unearthly hues

  Should in portraying thee grow warm;

  That all — from the ideal, grand,

  Inimitable Roman hand,

  Down to the small, enameling touch

  Of smooth CARLINO — should delight

  In picturing her, “who loved so much,”

  And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

  But MARY, ‘mong these bold essays

  Of Genius and of Art to raise

  A semblance of those weeping eyes —

  A vision worthy of the sphere

  Thy faith has earned thee in the skies,

  And in the hearts of all men here, —

  None e’er hath matched, in grief or grace,

  CANOVA’S day-dream of thy face,

  In those bright sculptured forms, more bright

  With true expression’s breathing light,

  Than ever yet beneath the stroke

  Of chisel into life awoke.

  The one,1 portraying what thou wert

  In thy first grief, — while yet the flower

  Of those young beauties was unhurt

  By sorrow’s slow, consuming power;

  And mingling earth’s seductive grace

  With heaven’s subliming thoughts so well,

  We doubt, while gazing, in which place

  Such beauty was most formed to dwell! —

  The other, as thou look’dst, when years

  Of fasting, penitence and tears

  Had worn thy frame; — and ne’er did Art

  With half such speaking power express

  The ruin which a breaking heart


  Spreads by degrees o’er loveliness.

  Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,

  Even still, of all their youthful grace,

  That loosened hair of which thy brow

  Was once so proud, — neglected now! —

  Those features even in fading worth

  The freshest bloom to others given,

  And those sunk eyes now lost to earth

  But to the last still full of heaven!

  Wonderful artist! praise, like mine —

  Tho’ springing from a soul that feels

  Deep worship of those works divine

  Where Genius all his light reveals —

  How weak ’tis to the words that came

  From him, thy peer in art and fame,2

  Whom I have known, by day, by night,

  Hang o’er thy marble with delight;

  And while his lingering hand would steal

  O’er every grace the taper’s rays3

  Give thee with all the generous zeal

  Such master spirits only feel,

  That best of fame, a rival’s prize!

  1 This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

  2 Chantrey.

  3 Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.

  EXTRACT XVI.

  Les Charmettes.

  A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens. — Their Menage. — Its Grossness. — Claude Anet. — Reverence with which the spot is now visited. — Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame. — Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau’s History. — Impostures of Men of Genius. — Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.

  Strange power of Genius, that can throw

  Round all that’s vicious, weak, and low,

  Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes

  As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

  * * * * *

  ’Tis worse than weak— ’tis wrong, ’tis shame,

  This mean prostration before Fame;

  This casting down beneath the car

  Of Idols, whatsoe’er they are,

  Life’s purest, holiest decencies,

  To be careered o’er as they please.

  No — give triumphant Genius all

  For which his loftiest wish can call:

  If he be worshipt, let it be

  For attributes, his noblest, first;

  Not with that base idolatry