Page:The Lady's Book Vol. V.pdf/32

 30 THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK, & c.

THE PAINTER'S LAST WORK.

A SCENE. *

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Clasp me a little longer on the brink

Of life, while I can feel thy dear caress ;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat, oh ! think, And let it mitigate thy woe's excess ,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness ,

And friend to more than human friendship just. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

-

SCENE - A Room in an Italian Cottage. The Lattice open- ing upon a Landscape at sunset.

FRANCESCO - TERESA.

TERESA.

THE fever's hue hath left thy cheek, beloved ! Thine eyes, that make the day - spring in my heart , Are clear and still once more. Wilt thou look forth ? Now, while the sunset with low - streaming light- The light thou lov'st - hath made the chesnut - stems All burning bronze , the lake one sea of gold ! Wilt thou be raised upon thy couch, to meet The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds ? Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more On this true bosom , lulling thee to rest With vesper hymns ?

FRANCESCO.

No, gentlest love ! not now : My soul is wakeful - lingering to look forth, Not on the sun , but thee ! Doth the light sleep So gently on the lake ? and are the stems Of our own chesnuts by that alchymy So richly changed ? —and is the orange scent Floating around ? -But I have said farewell, Farewell to earth , Teresa ! not to thee, Nor yet to our deep love , nor yet awhile Unto the spirit of mine art , which flows Back on my soul in mastery ! -- one last work ! And I will shrine my wealth of glowing thoughts ,

Clinging affection and undying hope, All that is in me for eternity ,

All, all , in that memorial.

TERESA.

Oh ! what dream

Is this, mine own Francesco ? Waste thou not

Thy scarce returning strength ; keep thy rich thoughts For happier days ! they will not melt away Like passing music from the lute ; -dear friend ! Dearest of friends ! thou canst win back at will The glorious visions.

FRANCESCO.

Yes ! the unseen land

Of glorious visions hath sent forth a voice To call me hence. Oh ! be thou not deceived ! Bind to thy heart no earthly hope, Teresa !

I must, must leave thee ! Yet be strong, my love , As thou hast still been gentle !

TERESA.

Oh, Francesco !

What will this dim world be to me, Francesco , When wanting thy bright soul , the life of all- My only sunshine ! -How can I bear on ? How can we part ? We, that have loved so well , With clasping spirits link'd so long by grief- By tears - by prayer ?

FRANCESCO.

Ev'n therefore we can part ,

With an immortal trust, that such high love

Is not of things to perish.

Suggested by the closing scene in the life of the painter Blake ; as beautifully related by Allan Cunningham.

Let me leave

One record still, to prove it strong as death , Ev'n in Death's hour of triumph. Once again, Stand with thy meek hands folded on thy breast , And eyes half - veil'd , in thine own soul absorb'd , As in thy watchings , ere I sink to sleep ; And I will give the bending flower - like grace Of that soft form , and the still sweetness throned On that pale brow , and in that quivering smile Of voiceless love , a life that shall outlast Their delicate earthly being. There - thy head Bow'd down with beauty, and with tenderness , And lowly thought - even thus - my own Teresa ! Oh ! the quick glancing radiance, and bright bloom That once around thee hung , have melted now Into more solemn light -- but holier far , And dearer , and yet lovelier in mine eyes , Than all that summer flush ! For by my couch ,

In patient and serene devotedness ,

Thou hast made those rich hues and sunny smiles, Thine offering unto me. Oh ! I may give Those pensive lips, that clear Madonna brow , And the sweet earnestness of that dark eye , Unto the canvas -- I may catch the flow Of all those drooping locks , and glorify With a soft halo what is imaged thus-

But how much rests unbreathed ! My faithful one ! What thou hast been to me ! This bitter world, This cold unanswering world , that hath no voice To greet the heavenly spirit - that drives back All Birds of Eden , which would sojourn here A little while - how have I turn'd away From its keen soulless air , and in thy heart , Found ever the sweet fountain of response , To quench my thirst for home !

The dear work grows

Beneath my hand - the last ! Each faintest line With treasured memories fraught. Oh ! weep thou not Too long, too bitterly , when I depart !

Surely a bright home waits us both - for I ,

In all my dreams, have turn'd me not from God ; And Thou - oh ! best and purest ! stand thou there— There, in thy hallow'd beauty , shadowing forth The loveliness of love !

FIRST LOVE.

LOVE ! -1 will tell thee what it is to love ! It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove ; Where time seems young , and life a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures , all desires combine To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. Above -- the stars in shroudless beauty shine ; Around the streams their flowery margin kiss ;

And if there's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this !

Yes, this is Love - the steadfast and the true-

The immortal glory which hath never set- The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew- Of all life's sweets , the very sweetest yet !

Oh ! who but can recal the eve they met

To breathe, in some green walk , their first young vòw , While summer flows with moonlight dews were wet , And winds sighed soft around the mountain's brow- And all was rapture then - which is but memory now ! Honour may wreathe the victor's brow with bays, And Glory pour her treasures at his feet- The Statesman win his country's honest praise- Fortune and Commerce in our cities meet :

But when - ah ! when were earth's possessions sweet— Unblest with one fond friend those gifts to share ?

The lowliest peasant, in his calm retreat ,

Finds more of happiness, and less of care ,

Than hearts unwarmed by Love ' mid palace halls must bear !