Stanzas to Painting

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear 2Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 2And I wish you to grow on my tomb.

Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as her's we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odours rise. Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, And songs, when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart.

O thou by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethean Muse! And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power, Persuasive more than poet's tongue; Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung;

Does Hope her high possession meet? Is joy triumphant, sorrow flown? Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet, When all we love is all our own.

But oh thou pulse of pleasure dear, Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall Song its witching cadence roll? Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul, And heart to heart responsive beat?

What visions rise! to charm, to melt! The lost, the loved, the dead are near! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt! And cease that solace too severe!

But thou, serenely silent art! By heaven and love wast taught to lend A milder solace to the heart, The sacred image of a friend.

All is not lost! if, yet possest, To me that sweet memorial shine:— If close and closer to my breast I hold that idol all divine.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears, Melt o'er the loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life, and speech, and spirit warm.

She looks! she lives! this tranced hour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory's wealthy diadem.

Yes. Genius, yes! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.

No spectre forms of pleasure fled, Thy softening, sweetening, tints restore; For thou canst give us back the dead, E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.

Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems! Whose tablet of a thousand hues The mirror of creation seems.

From Love began thy high descent; And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine, Shall bless thee mutely eloquent; And call thee brightest of the Nine!