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
