English

Had Courbet paid attention to his art,
And less to posing in the Paris mart,
And left the Vendome Column on its base,
And taught his truthful tongue a saving grace,
And travelled in the straight and narrow way —
He might have wrought some pictures in his day.
He loved the swinging Seas in shine and storm,
And limned one Wave that lives — in flawless form.

There's rue for those who seek achievement high,
And yet, en route to Failure, fall and die;
But justice, too, altho' they " do their best,"

An expurgated Rousseau, light and gay,
Diaz could trace the sunshine's chequered play
With opalescent sou-bois tones and tints
That sparkle like the leaping flash of flints.

In youthful days Jean Millet drew the nude
In festal forms that tried the prurient Prude;
Of bold selection and seductive style,
And colour sensuous as Sappho's smile,
They still transcend The Angelus as art
Despite the noisy reclame of the mart:
The Angelus! in which the traders hear
That high-priced, holy bell to Hebrews dear,
Of tintinnabulations that proclaim
The market value of a mystic name.

Tiring of nudes, the master's epic hand
Turned to the peasant of his native land,

In 'Twenty-four the Salon bared to view
An English Hay-wain of a beauty new;
A landscape revolution was in sight,
And Constable had caught the trend aright;
That " monumental amateur" in paint,
Of work too often tentative and faint.
Then Rousseau came, a subtler style to sway,
And landscape, long awaited, had its day;
The men of 'Thirty woke to classic aim,
The French Romantics of far-shining fame!

FRENCH COLOUR

I sing of those who roam the happy fields
To paint the lyrics Lady Nature yields;
Of those for whom she chants her primal strain,
Weird, witching undertones of joy and pain;
That silent symphony the master heeds,
The colour music of the skies and meads.

Here is no closet-message to declare,
The lore is lacking but the love is fair.
Stern Wisdom never warms me with her smile,
'T is winsome Folly lures me all the while.
I worship Beauty with her, hand in hand,

My cruel Dear, having captived my heart,
And bound it fast in chains of restless love,
Requires it out of bondage to depart;
Yet is she sure from her it cannot move.
" Draw back, " said she, " your hopeless love from me;
Your worth requires a far more worthy place;
Unto your suit though I cannot agree,
Full many will it lovingly embrace. "
" It may be so, my dear, but, as the Sun,
When it appears, doth make the stars to vanish;
So when yourself into my thoughts do run,
All others quite out of my heart you banish.

If you would know the love which I you bear,
Compare it to the ring which your fair hand
Shall make more precious, when you shall it wear:
So my love's nature you shall understand.
Is it of metal pure? so you shall prove
My love, which ne'er disloyal thought did stain,
Hath it no end? so endless is my love,
Unless you it destroy with your disdain.
Doth it the purer wax, the more 'tis tried?
So doth my love: yet herein they dissent,
That whereas gold, the more 'tis purified,
By waxing less, doth show some part is spent;

Whenas the sun eclipsed is, some say,
It thunder, lightning, rain, and wind portendeth:
And not unlike but such things happen may,
Sith like effects my Sun eclipsed sendeth.
Witness my throat, made hoarse with thundering cries,
And heart, with love's hot flashing lightnings fired:
Witness the showers, which still fall from mine eyes,
And breast, with sighs like stormy winds near rived.
Oh shine then once again, sweet Sun, on me,
And with thy beams dissolve clouds of despair,
Whereof these raging meteors framed be

When time nor place would let me often view
Nature's chief mirror, and my sole delight,
Her lively picture in my heart I drew,
That I might it behold both day and night:
But she, like Philip's son, scorning that I
Should portray her, wanting Apelles' art,
Commanded Love, who nought dare her deny,
To burn the picture which was in my heart.
The more Love burned, the more her picture shined;
The more it shined, the more my heart did burn:
So what to hurt her picture was assigned,
To my heart's ruin and decay did turn.

Once did my Philomel reflect on me
Her crystal-pointed eyes as I passed by;
Thinking not to be seen, yet would me see;
But soon my hungry eyes their food did spy.
Alas! my Dear, couldst thou suppose, that face,
Which needs not envy Phaebus' chiefest pride,
Could secret be, although in secret place,
And that transparent glass such beams could hide?
But if I had been blind, yet Love's hot flame,
Kindled in my poor heart by thy bright eye,
Did plainly shew when it so near thee came,
By more than usual heat the cause was nigh: