POEMS OF MANHATTAN
Warm grows the radiant masterpiece,
The sweetness of Correggio!
The visionary hues increase,
Angelic lustres come and go;
And still, as still in Parma too,—
In Rome, Bologna, Florence, all,—
Goes on the outer world's ado,
Life's transitory, harsh recall.
A real Correggio? And here!
Yes, to the one impassioned heart,
Transfiguring all, the strokes appear
That mark the perfect master's art.
You question of the proof? You owe
More faith to fact than fancy? Hush!
Look with expectant eyes, and know,
With him, the hand that held the brush!
The same wild thought that warmed from stone
The Venus of the monkish Gest,
The image of Pygmalion,
Here finds Correggio confest.
And Art requires its votary:
The Queen of Heaven herself may pine
When these quaint rooms no longer see
The one that knew her all divine.
Ah, me! ah me, for centuries veiled!
(The desolate Virgin then may say,)
Once more my rainbow tints are paled
With that unquestioning soul away—
Whose faith compelled the sun, the stars,
To yield their halos for my sake,
And saw through Time's obscuring bars
The Parmese master's glory break!
1883.
98
