Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/477

Rh In that most delicate and subtle touch,—

The art miraculous, the not too much,—

Of him whose brows the generations wreathe

With laurel on laurel, as the world grows old,

And all its annals one Velasquez hold.

And by the northern seas his art sublime

That trembles with the tragedies of time—

His art who knew all mysteries of light,

Not less the heart of man; for in his sight

No secret could endure, and on his page

The soul's dark pathos lives from age to age.

They live indeed, whom art has made to live—

How real from the canvas forth they look

And judgment seem on our own selves to give

As we judge them.

Miraculous art, that took

Through all the centuries the tongue of praise,

And worthy all honors, not for the old days

Alone, and painters gone before—no less

For those who dare discipleship confess

And in the footsteps of the mighty tread.

With modern skill the ancient mode they keep;

On the old altar burns the authentic fire;

Priests of the ancient faith, that never sleep;

They, with new masters of the sacred lyre,

And all the sons of genius, still aspire

Purely and greatly; rendering our late time,

Not less than that long gone, imperial, sublime!

Lady, shrink not that you, to-day, we name

In the same breath with the age-conquering fame

Of them most glorious in a mighty line.

Not for the living is it to assign

Rank to the living, in the long roll of art.

But blame us not if here we crown the intent