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Caught from the moving form, and breathing face,
Beneath his touch, like soft enchantment stole,
And on the ivory smiled the living soul!
Flushed with delight, in that triumphant hour,
His heart expanded like an opening flower;
His hopes on airy wings were lightly raised,
And all his soul exulted as he gazed.
But ah! such thrilling joys are known to few,
They are the painter's meed, the poet's due.
And O! how sweet the bliss such joys impart,
Although their very raptures break the heart!
What, though the poet, bending o'er his lyre,
Like his own songs, in sweetness may expire!
Who would not, swan-like, waste his sweetest breath,
To taste such rapture—die so sweet a death?
Flushed, faint, and trembling at his own success,
Such joys as these, the lonely painter bless.
As some fair face his silent toil repays,
And bursts in beauty on his raptured gaze,
His thoughts, too sweet for mortal hearts to share,
Float up to heaven, and find an echo there,
While on his heart descends immortal fire,
And his own soul becomes his funeral pyre.
Beneath his touch, like soft enchantment stole,
And on the ivory smiled the living soul!
Flushed with delight, in that triumphant hour,
His heart expanded like an opening flower;
His hopes on airy wings were lightly raised,
And all his soul exulted as he gazed.
But ah! such thrilling joys are known to few,
They are the painter's meed, the poet's due.
And O! how sweet the bliss such joys impart,
Although their very raptures break the heart!
What, though the poet, bending o'er his lyre,
Like his own songs, in sweetness may expire!
Who would not, swan-like, waste his sweetest breath,
To taste such rapture—die so sweet a death?
Flushed, faint, and trembling at his own success,
Such joys as these, the lonely painter bless.
As some fair face his silent toil repays,
And bursts in beauty on his raptured gaze,
His thoughts, too sweet for mortal hearts to share,
Float up to heaven, and find an echo there,
While on his heart descends immortal fire,
And his own soul becomes his funeral pyre.
