Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/185

179 That his ideal Mary-smile should stand So very near him!—he, within the brink Of all that glory, let in by his hand With too divine a rashness! Yet none shrink Who gaze here now—albeit the thing is planned Sublimely in the thought's simplicity. The Virgin, throned in empyreal state, Minds only the young babe upon her knee; While, each side, angels bear the royal weight, Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly Oblivion of their wings! the Child thereat Stretches its hand like God. If any should, Because of some stiff draperies and loose joints, Gaze scorn down from the heights of Raffaelhood, On Cimabue's picture,—Heaven anoints The head of no such critic, and his blood The poet's curse strikes full on, and appoints To ague and cold spasms for evermore. A noble picture! worthy of the shout Wherewith along the streets the people bore Its cherub faces, which the sun threw out Until they stooped and entered the church door! Yet rightly was young Giotto talked about, Whom Cimabue found among the sheep, And knew, as gods know gods, and carried home To paint the things he painted, with a deep And fuller insight, and so overcome His chapel-Virgin with a heavenlier sweep Of light. For thus we mount into the sum Of great things known or acted. I hold, too,