Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/186

180 That Cimabue smiled upon the lad, At the first stroke which passed what he could do,— Or else his Virgin's smile had never had Such sweetness in't. All great men who foreknew Their heirs in art, for art's sake have been glad, And bent their old white heads as if uncrowned, Fanatics of their pure ideals still, Far more than of their laurels which were found With some less stalwart struggle of the will. If old Margheritone trembled, swooned, And died despairing at the open sill Of other men's achievements, (who achieved, By loving art beyond the master!) he Was old Margheritone and conceived Never, at youngest and most ecstasy, A Virgin like that dream of one, which heaved The death-sigh from his heart. If wistfully Margheritone sickened at the smell Of Cimabue's laurel, let him go!— Strong Cimabue stood up very well In spite of Giotto's—and Angelico, The artist-saint, kept smiling in his cell The smile with which he welcomed the sweet slow Inbreak of angels, (whitening through the dim That he might paint them!) while the sudden sense Of Raffael's future was revealed to him By force of his own fair works' competence. The same blue waters where the dolphins swim Suggest the Tritons. Through the blue Immense Strike out all swimmers! cling not in the way Of one another, so to sink; but learn The strong man's impulse, catch the fresh'ning spray