To Lessing's Laocoon°

Epilogue

°One morn as through Hyde Park° we walk'd,
My friend and I, by chance we talk'd
Of Lessing's famed LAOCOON;
And after we awhile had gone
5In Lessing's track, and tried to see
What painting is, what poetry—
Diverging to another thought,
"Ah," cries my friend, "but who hath taught
Why music and the other arts
10Oftener perform aright their parts
Than poetry? why she, than they,
Fewer fine successes can display?

[p.107] "For 'tis so, surely! Even in Greece,
Where best the poet framed his piece,
°Even in that Phœbus-guarded ground°
°Pausanias° on his travels found
Good poems, if he look'd, more rare
(Though many) than good statues were—
For these, in truth, were everywhere.
20Of bards full many a stroke divine
°In Dante's,° Petrarch's,° Tasso's° line,
°The land of Ariosto° show'd;
And yet, e'en there, the canvas glow'd
With triumphs, a yet ampler brood,
°Of Raphael° and his brotherhood.
And nobly perfect, in our day
Of haste, half-work, and disarray,
Profound yet touching, sweet yet strong,
°Hath risen Goethe's,° Wordsworth's° song;
30Yet even I (and none will bow
Deeper to these) must needs allow,
They yield us not, to soothe our pains,
Such multitude of heavenly strains
As from the kings of sound are blown,
°Mozart,° Beethoven,° Mendelssohn.°"

While thus my friend discoursed, we pass
Out of the path, and take the grass.
The grass had still the green of May,
And still the unblackan'd elms were gay;
40The kine were resting in the shade,
The flies a summer-murmur made.
°Bright was the morn and south° the air;
The soft-couch'd cattle were as fair
As those which pastured by the sea,
[p.108] 45That old-world morn, in Sicily,
When on the beach the Cyclops lay,
And Galatea from the bay
°Mock'd her poor lovelorn giant's lay.°
"Behold," I said, "the painter's sphere!
50The limits of his art appear.
The passing group, the summer-morn,
The grass, the elms, that blossom'd thorn—
Those cattle couch'd, or, as they rise,
Their shining flanks, their liquid eyes—
55These, or much greater things, but caught
Like these, and in one aspect brought!
In outward semblance he must give
A moment's life of things that live;
Then let him choose his moment well,
60With power divine its story tell."

Still we walk'd on, in thoughtful mood,
And now upon the bridge we stood.
Full of sweet breathings was the air,
Of sudden stirs and pauses fair.
65Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze
Came rustling from the garden-trees
And on the sparkling waters play'd;
Light-plashing waves an answer made,
And mimic boats their haven near'd.
°Beyond, the Abbey-towers° appear'd,
By mist and chimneys unconfined,
Free to the sweep of light and wind;
While through their earth-moor'd nave below
Another breath of wind doth blow,
75Sound as of wandering breeze—but sound
In laws by human artists bound.

[p.109] °"The world of music°!" I exclaimed:—
"This breeze that rustles by, that famed
Abbey recall it! what a sphere
80Large and profound, hath genius here!
The inspired musician what a range,
What power of passion, wealth of change
Some source of feeling he must choose
And its lock'd fount of beauty use,
85And through the stream of music tell
Its else unutterable spell;
To choose it rightly is his part,
And press into its inmost heart.

°"Miserere Domine°!

90The words are utter'd, and they flee.
Deep is their penitential moan,
Mighty their pathos, but 'tis gone.
They have declared the spirit's sore
Sore load, and words can do no more.
95Beethoven takes them then—those two
Poor, bounded words—and makes them new;
Infinite makes them, makes them young;
Transplants them to another tongue,
Where they can now, without constraint,
100Pour all the soul of their complaint,
And roll adown a channel large
The wealth divine they have in charge.
Page after page of music turn,
And still they live and still they burn,
105Eternal, passion-fraught, and free—
°Miserere Domine°!"

°Onward we moved, and reach'd the Ride°
Where gaily flows the human tide.
[p.110] Afar, in rest the cattle lay;
110We heard, afar, faint music play;
But agitated, brisk, and near,
Men, with their stream of life, were here.
Some hang upon the rails, and some
On foot behind them go and come.
115This through the Ride upon his steed
Goes slowly by, and this at speed.
The young, the happy, and the fair,
The old, the sad, the worn, were there;
°Some vacant,° and some musing went,
120And some in talk and merriment.
Nods, smiles, and greetings, and farewells!
And now and then, perhaps, there swells
A sigh, a tear—but in the throng
°All changes fast, and hies° along.
125Hies, ah, from whence, what native ground?
And to what goal, what ending, bound?
"Behold, at last the poet's sphere!
But who," I said, "suffices here?

"For, ah! so much he has to do;
°Be painter and musician too°!
The aspect of the moment show,
The feeling of the moment know!
The aspect not, I grant, express
Clear as the painter's art can dress;
135The feeling not, I grant, explore
So deep as the musician's lore—
But clear as words can make revealing,
And deep as words can follow feeling.
But, ah! then comes his sorest spell
°Of toil—he must life's movement
° tell!
[p.111] The thread which binds it all in one,
And not its separate parts alone.
The movement
he must tell of life,
Its pain and pleasure, rest and strife;
145His eye must travel down, at full,
The long, unpausing spectacle;
With faithful unrelaxing force
Attend it from its primal source,
From change to change and year to year
150Attend it of its mid career,
Attend it to the last repose
And solemn silence of its close.

"The cattle rising from the grass
His thought must follow where they pass;
155The penitent with anguish bow'd
His thought must follow through the crowd.
Yes! all this eddying, motley throng
That sparkles in the sun along,
Girl, statesman, merchant, soldier bold,
160Master and servant, young and old,
Grave, gay, child, parent, husband, wife,
He follows home, and lives their life.

And many, many are the souls
Life's movement fascinates, controls;
165It draws them on, they cannot save
Their feet from its alluring wave;
They cannot leave it, they must go
With its unconquerable flow.
But ah! how few, of all that try
170This mighty march, do aught but die!
[p.112] For ill-endow'd for such a way,
Ill-stored in strength, in wits, are they.
They faint, they stagger to and fro,
And wandering from the stream they go;
175In pain, in terror, in distress,
They see, all round, a wilderness.
Sometimes a momentary gleam
They catch of the mysterious stream;
Sometimes, a second's space, their ear
180The murmur of its waves doth hear.
That transient glimpse in song they say,
But not of painter can pourtray—
That transient sound in song they tell,
But not, as the musician, well.
185And when at last their snatches cease,
And they are silent and at peace,
The stream of life's majestic whole
Hath ne'er been mirror'd on their soul.

"Only a few the life-stream's shore
190With safe unwandering feet explore;
Untired its movement bright attend,
Follow its windings to the end.
Then from its brimming waves their eye
Drinks up delighted ecstasy,
195And its deep-toned, melodious voice
For ever makes their ear rejoice.
They speak! the happiness divine
They feel, runs o'er in every line;
Its spell is round them like a shower—
200It gives them pathos, gives them power.
No painter yet hath such a way,
Nor no musician made, as they,
[p.113] And gather'd on immortal knolls
Such lovely flowers for cheering souls.
205Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach
The charm which Homer, Shakespeare, teach.
To these, to these, their thankful race
Gives, then, the first, the fairest place;
And brightest is their glory's sheen,
°For greatest hath their labour been.°"

[p.116]