Short Poems

The light that artist-painters toil to woo,
The light that brings to art a beauty new,
Gerome's deft brush once shed; but sheds no more —
The consecration and the dream are o'er.
The blaze of gold has led from Ney to this,
From mountain peaks down to the deep abyss
Where Cairo-corners jut, and lions pause
In cool defiance of artistic laws.

Jean Henner's model, of the mawkish strain,
Still tears her auburn hair for Henner's gain.
One hour with pious pose she plays the nun,
And then she plays a part the pious shun;
But whether as a Maid or Magdalene,
A wearying sameness clothes her morbid scene.

With waxen wares see Bouguereau plod along,
With weak but wicked nymphs and satyrs strong;
With Cupid Mouille , and with cupids dry,
Enough to stock a harem, or a sty.
The pasty puppets, void of virile grace,
The turgid torpor and the dollie face,
Untouched of atmosphere or vibrant tone,
Are Bouguereau's stock-in-trade, nor his alone.

The Salon is a bill-board, blazoned o'er
With advertisements of the common bore;
And each recurrent exhibition knows
The sweet credulity a bill-board shows.

There was a stir, like gossamer,
When Rismel slipt to sea.
And with a stir, like gossamer,
The deeps shall welcome me:
But at Gramard's gates the Bridegroom waits;
And His words shall make me free.

But the young vestal's vows? — 'Tis well the Pope
Is kind of heart, and fractures many a chain.
I fear, in England they could have no hope,
But dukes and ducats can do much in Spain:
So they were wedded, and life's smoothest tide
Bore on its breast the bridegroom and the bride.

Then thoughts of old Sidonia struck his mind,
No child to bless him, none that he could bless,
Life, all but its last bitterness, resign'd. —
Lonely himself, he thought of loneliness,
And turn'd a moment from that mountain shrine,
To be a gentle son to his decline.

Grenada's gate was storm'd, the cross of red
Fix'd on the Moorish wall, the Frenchman fled:
Sebastian bleeding to his tent was borne.
First in the charge, the fire, the escalade,
A ball had struck him; agonized and torn,
He saw his standard on the rampart soar,
Join'd in the shout, and sank, and saw no more.

He rush'd impatient through the halls of state,
No tidings there; the halls were desolate.
Yet, while his foot was in the stirrup hung,
His word was " tidings of the minstrel Moor " ;
His purse was to the bowing menials flung,
Yet " to his boons to come, its weight were poor:
Lived there the man who could but name her name? "
None knew it, where she went, nor whence she came.

Man has weighed the stars,
Caught the lightning in its course,
And peered like a curious child into his own cradle;
But never has he controlled the fixed conditions.
If he will not swim with the benevolent current,
As the willow-leaf floats on the river,
He shall be drowned.