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
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CASA GUIDI WINDOWS.
