Unrivall❜d Angelo on thee would gaze,
Till his full soul imbibed perfection's blaze! And who but he, that Prince of Art, might dare Thy sovereign greatness view without despair? Emblem of Rome! from power's meridian hurl'd, Yet claiming still the homage of the world.
What hadst thou been, ere barb'rous hands defaced
The work of wonder, idolized by taste?
Oh! worthy still of some divine abode,
Mould of a Conqueror! ruin of a God!
Still, like some broken gem, whose quenchless
From each bright fragment pours its vital stream,
'Tis thine, by fate unconquer'd to dispense
From every part some ray of excellence!
E'en yet, inform'd with essence from on high,
Thine is no trace of frail mortality!
Within that frame a purer being glows,
Through viewless veins a brighter current flows;
Fill'd with immortal life each muscle swells,
In every line supernal grandeur dwells.
Consummate work! the noblest and the last
Of Grecian Freedom, ere her reign was past:
Nurse of the mighty, she, while ling'ring still,
Her mantle flow'd o'er many a classic hill,
Ere yet her voice its parting accents breathed,
A hero's image to the world bequeathed;
Enshrined in thee th' imperishable ray
Of high-soul'd Genius, foster'd by her sway,
And bade thee teach to ages yet unborn,
What lofty dreams were hers who never shall
And mark yon group, tranxsfix'd with many
a throe,
Seal'd with the image of eternal woe:
With fearful truth, terrific power, exprest,
Thy pangs, Laocoon, agonize the breast,
And the stern combat picture to mankind
Of suffering nature and enduring mind.
Oh, mighty conflict! though his pains intense
Distend each nerve, and dart through every sense;
Though fix'd on him, his children's suppliant eyes
Implore the aid avenging fate denies;
Though with the giant snake in fruitless strife,
Heaves every muscle with convulsive life,
And in each limb existence writhes, enroll'd,
'Midst the dread circles of the venom'd fold;
Yet the strong spirit lives-and not a cry
Shall own the might of Nature's agony!
That furrow'd brow unconquer'd soul reveals,
That patient eye to angry heaven appeals,
That struggling bosom concentrates its breath,
Nor yields one moan to torture or to death.
Sublimest triumph of intrepid Art!
With speechless horror to congeal the heart,
To freeze each pulse, and dart through every
vein,
Cold thrills of fear, keen sympathies of pain;
Yet teach the spirit how its lofty power
May brave the pangs of fate's severest hour.
Turn from such conflicts, and enraptured gaze On scenes where Painting all her skill displays: Landscapes, by coloring dress'd in richer dyes, More mellow'd sunshine, more unclouded skies, Of dreams of bliss, to dying martyrs given, Descending seraphs, robed in beams of heaven.
Oh! sovereign Masters of the Pencil's might, Its depths of shadow, and its blaze of light; Ye, whose bold thought disdaining every bound, Explored the worlds above, below, around, Children of Italy! who stand alone
And unapproach'd, 'midst regions all your own; What scenes, what beings bless'd your favor'd sight,
Severely grand, unutterably bright!
Triumphant spirits! your exulting eye
Could meet the noontide of eternity,
And gaze untired, undaunted, uncontroll'd,
On all that Fancy trembles to behold.
Bright on your view such forins their splendor
shed,
As burst on prophet-bards in ages fled :
Forms that to trace no hand but yours might dare,
Darkly sublime or exquisitely fair;
These o'er the walls your magic skill array'd, Glow in rich sunshine, gleam through melting shade,
Float in light grace, in awful greatness tower, And breathe and move, the records of your
Inspired of Heaven! what heightened power ye
O'er all the deathless trophies of the past!
Round many a marble fane and classic dome,
Asserting still the majesty of Rome ;
Round many a work that bids the world believe
What Grecian Art could image and achieve;
Again, creative minds, your visions throw
Life's chasten'd warmth, and Beauty's mellowest glow,
And when the Morn's bright beams and mantling dyes,
Pour the rich lustre of Ausonian skies,
Or evening suns illume, with purple smile,
The Parian altar, and the pillar'd aisle,
Then, as the full, or soften'd radiance falls,
On angel-groups that hover o'er the walls,
Well may those Temples, where your hand has
shed
Light o'er the tomb, existence round the dead,
Seem like some world, so perfect and so fair,
That nought of earth should find admittance
there,
Some sphere where beings, to mankind unknown,
Dwell in the brightness of their pomp alone!
Hence, ye vain fictions! fancy's erring theme! Gods of illusion! phantoms of a dream! Frail, powerless idols of departed time," Fables of song, delusive, though sublime! To loftier tasks has Roman Art assign'd Her matchless pencil, and her mighty mind!
From brighter streams her vast ideas flow'd,
With purer fire her ardent spirit glow'd.
To her 'twas given in fancy to explore
The land of miracles, the holiest shore ;
That realm where first the light of life was sent,
The loved, the punish'd of th' Omnipotent!
O'er Judah's hills her thoughts inspired would
stray,
Through Jordan's valleys trace their lonely way;
By Siloa's brook, or Almotana's deep,
Chain'd in dead silence and unbroken sleep;
Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell,
Where pass'd th' Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal'd.
Swell'd in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal'd,
Or heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
Breathed "still small" whispers on the midnight
gale.
There dwelt her spirit-there her hand portray'd,
'Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb'd in sacred thought,
Bards, in high converse with the world of rest,
Saints of the earth, and spirits of the blest.
But chief to Him, the Conqueror of the grave,
Who lived to guide us, and who died to save;
Him, at whose glance the powers of evil fled,
And soul return'd to animate the dead;
Whom the waves own'd—and sunk beneath his eye,
Awed by one accent of Divinity;
To Him she gave her meditative hours, Hallow'd her thoughts, and sanctified her powers
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