Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/131



And 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 's mind Increased in lonely richness; every day New veins of splendid thought sprang into life. And left his convent cell with one Who, like a geni, bore him into scenes Of marvel and enchantment. And then first Did 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, for she gave At once birth to his fame and to himself. 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