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Edward Dowden (Эдвард Дауден (Доуден)) In the Galleries I. THE APOLLO BELVEDERE Radiance invincible! Is that the brow Which gleamed on Python while thy arrow sped? Are those the lips for Hyacinthus dead That grieved? Wherefore a God indeed art thou: For all we toil with ill, and the hours bow And break us, and at best when we have bled, And are much marred, perchance propitiated A little doubtful victory they allow: We sorrow, and thenceforth the lip retains A shade, and the eyes shine and wonder less. O joyous Slayer of evil things! O great And splendid Victor! God, whom no soil stains Of passion or doubt, of grief or languidness, --Even to worship thee I come too late. II. THE VENUS OF MELOS Goddess, or woman nobler than the God, No eyes a-gaze upon Ægean seas Shifting and circling past their Cyclades Saw thee. The Earth, the gracious Earth, wastrod First by thy feet, while round thee lay her broad Calm harvests, and great kine, and shadowing trees, And flowers like queens, and a full year’s increase, Clusters, ripe berry, and the bursting pod. So thy victorious fairness, unallied To bitter things or barren, doth bestow And not exact; so thou art calm and wise; Thy large allurement saves; a man may grow Like Plutarch’s men by standing at thy side, And walk thenceforward with clear-visioned eyes! III. ANTINOUS CROWNED AS BACCHUS (In the British Museum) Who crowned thy forehead with the ivy wreath And clustered berries burdening the hair? Who gave thee godhood, and dim rites? Beware O beautiful, who breathest mortal breath, Thou delicate flame great gloom environeth! The gods are free, and drink a stainless air, And lightly on calm shoulders they upbear A weight of joy eternal, nor can Death Cast o’er their sleep the shadow of her shrine. O thou confessed too mortal by the o’er-fraught Crowned forehead, must thy drooped eyes ever see The glut of pleasure, those pale lips of thine Still suck a bitter-sweet satiety, Thy soul descend through cloudy realms of thought? IV. LEONARDO’S “MONNA LISA” Make thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair Of knowing thee be absolute; I wait Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of fate Hides ’twixt the lips which smile and still forbear? Secret perfection! Mystery too fair! Tangle the sense no more lest I should hate Thy delicate tyranny, the inviolate Poise of thy folded hands, thy fallen hair. Nay, nay,--I wrong thee with rough words; still be Serene, victorious, inaccessible; Still smile but speak not; lightest irony Lurk ever ’neath thine eyelids’ shadow; still O’ertop our knowledge; Sphinx of Italy Allure us and reject us at thy will! V. ST LUKE PAINTING THE VIRGIN (By Van der Weyden) It was Luke’s will; and she, the mother-maid, Would not gainsay; to please him pleased her best; See, here she sits with dovelike heart at rest Brooding, and smoothest brow; the babe is laid On lap and arm, glad for the unarrayed And swatheless limbs he stretches; lightly pressed By soft maternal fingers the full breast Seeks him, while half a sidelong glance is stayed By her own bosom and half passes down To reach the boy. Through doors and window-frame Bright airs flow in; a river tranquilly Washes the small, glad Netherlandish town. Innocent calm! no token here of shame, A pierced heart, sunless heaven, and Calvary. Edward Dowden's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1192 |
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