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Nov. 12, 1864.] Rich in the treasures of Science and Literature,

Endowed with the noblest poetic powers,

Blessed with the love and admiration of all,

More blessed in the successful devotion of those high gifts

To the Service of

Him who gave them.

“For if we believe that Jesus died,

And rose again,

Even so them also who sleep in Jesus

Will God bring with him.”

1 Thess. iv. 14.

Captain Medwin, alluding to Lord Byron’s reading of the “Ode on the Burial of Sir John Moore,” says (as has already been noticed by Mr. Gibson), “The feeling with which he recited these admirable stanzas I shall never forget.” And it is the remembrance of the expressive beauty with which a loved parent—now no more—used to clothe these “admirable stanzas,” as he read them in the midst of us when we were children, that has given them a place in my heart of hearts, fondly endeared to me the name of Charles Wolfe, and chiefly induced me to trouble you with this letter.



pallid morn until the drowsy noon I worked with burning fever in my heart, That I might show my fellows with what skill God had imbued my fingers and my brain— That I might wear a nobler crown than they, And win me fame within our convent walls. But as I worked, and worked, and hovered o’er The tell-tale canvas, as a mother seeks Faint recognition in her young one’s eyes, A sense of shame and disappointment stole Upon me, for I knew my heart contained Serener love, a beauty nobler far Than this weak hand could clasp. So one grey morn A passion seized me, and I wildly swore And trampled in the dust my summer’s toil, Then threw myself upon my little couch And wept in vague remorse and throbbing pain. I did sore penance all that weary day And through the night; the while with tears I prayed That God would pardon all my foolish pride, And teach me so to work in reverent love, With perfect gentleness of will and aim, That men should look upon my art and feel Themselves thereby a little nearer Heaven.

This did I purpose: then with secret care I sought the shadow of my lonely cell, Where but one gleam of clear and crystal light Fell from the sky above. There laboured I What time my brother monks stood in the sun With idle gossip in the garden-square; And when the mournful bell swung to and fro And called us forth to penance or to prayer, There went with me a dream of loveliness— A strange white presence that before my eyes Floated like vapour o’er a summer sea— And at my heart I felt sweet consciousness Of happiness desired and reached. So I From earliest dawn till sunset strove to gain The full perfection nestled in my breast; And as I saw the beauty come and go In fitful flashes as the sunlight stole Athwart my little room, I seized it there And bade it burn and burn for evermore To satisfy my gloating, ardent eyes.

It was my comfort day by day; therein I found some consolation when my soul Grew dark with thinking of my sunny youth, And when the evening light stole down the sky And reddened poplar stems, or touched the wall With faint approach of crimson—when I dreamed Of summer twilights buried long ago Within the pale vaults of the past, until My heart grew sick and weary of my life, And there uprose a vision of my home Afar amid the blue Calabrian hills— Of one there, also, whose angelic face Was far too pure for earth—and of the nights Made musical by beating of twin hearts— Bah! wherefore should I rave? I turned and looked Upon my picture, called myself a fool, And wondered if in all my moon-struck days I could have done or dreamed this glorious work.

At length ’twas finished, and they came to see: Spoke oily comments from beneath their cowls, And veiled their ignorance in soft applause. The prior said ’twas this and that—admired The handling and the colour consonance; Was somewhat critical, and spoke of forms That gained distinctness by a vague outline. He praised the work, but said it might have been Some other thing—he scarcely knew well what; And shut an eye, and raised a finger so, To see if such a line were truly straight. I turned from them: they knew not me nor mine: Saw in all beauty earthward sent by God A merely pleasant thing that touched the eye, Or, with a graceful figure, hue, or tint, Rendered a sensual delight more sweet.

Then strangers came: the prior was polite— Would bring them hither and with pride display My picture as a marvel of the place; Whereat they looked, and smiled, and said ’twas fine, Twas wondrous fine, the convent should be famed! I heard them all, yet heeded none. To me My picture offered calm content, and I Was fain to spend my life in solitude— My poor and shattered life—a worthless thing— A sunset drowned in rainy mist of tears. 

 Among the rest one day an artist came,— He said he was an artist—this I knew In that he spoke not hurriedly, nor deemed It quite sufficient for a painter’s ear To hear that he had met with fair success. At length he broke the silence with a stream Of phrases admirably turn’d, and then I thought him just like others, nor did care To thank him for his praise. He said that I Should make the nations ring with clamorous joy, And should bequeath unto all coming time The strength that God had given; that he would Obtain a dispensation from the Pope To yield me time for study and for work. I said, “The world has many painters; I Have but one soul; wherefore would I remain Within these walls.” Whereat he looked amazed, Then glanced upon my picture once again. I swear that thou art greater than myself!