aside in unbelief, saying, "Such knowledge is too wonderful for me," as if it were by our own worthiness we were to enter in. "Oh! the height," writes Isaac Penington, "the depth, the length, and the breadth of the riches of the mercy and love of God! Who knows His yearnings towards souls, and His ways of visiting and redeeming? Oh, my soul! Hope thou in the Lord for evermore, and leave not breathing towards Him, till thou and His whole creation be filled and satisfied with Him, and thou fetch the full breath of life in Him for ever."
In his chamber sits the Painter,
From his fellows drawn apart
By the grandeur of his fancy,
By the glory of his art;
Only there the pictured faces
Of the ages long ago,
Veiling in their steady calmness
Heights of joy or depths of woe;
Only there the empty canvas
Waiting for the touch divine
To transmute the soul-less blankness
To the Artist's great design;
Only there the Mighty Presence
Known but to earth's favoured ones,
Sights of Beauty uncreated
Genius claimeth for her sons.
Back in thought the Painter wanders
To those early days of youth,
When the fires of young Ambition,
When the restless thirst for Truth
Had inspired the noble longing—
"O to make this Art of mine,
This most precious gift of Heaven
Shadow forth a grace Divine,
So that men might look and linger
And grow purer while they gaze,
Drinking in new strength, new beauty
For the work of coming days.
Not for earthly fame I labour,
Not that this poor name of mine
'Mid the elder sons of Science,
Or the lords of Art may shine."
Long, long years had run their courses,
Many a sun had set since then,
And the boy's young hopes had mingled
With the graver thoughts of men ;
Still to leave his living impress
On the boundless world of Mind,
Still to fight for Truth and Virtue,
To regenerate his kind-
This, the impulse, kindling, burning,
In the Poet-Artist's soul,
Every noble aspiration
Pointing onward to the goal.
In the lands where giant mountains
Lift to Heaven their front sublime,
Smiling in their solemn grandeur
O'er the battlements of Time-
On the shores where mighty empires
Rose and flourished and decayed,
Where on all her classic treasures
Art her hallowing touch hath laid-
In the aisles of great cathedrals
Echoing ever with the sound
Of the steps of the departed,
Stealing o'er the sacred ground
In the green Judean valleys
Where the Blessed feet have trod, Where has walked the Man Most Holy, Son of Man and Son of God—
Everywhere the noble ideal
Of the Artist's pure desire
Had matured the earnest longing,
Burning like a Vestal fire,-
"O, to shadow forth a Beauty,
So that men might pause and gaze,
And, in gazing, grow the stronger
For the work of coming days"!
In his chamber sits the Painter,
Now no more the ardent youth,
With his feverish dreams of conquest
In the mighty realm of Truth;
But the man, with earnest purpose,
With an energy of will,
With the confidence of genius,
Power to plan and to fulfil.
"This shall be my work," he murmured,
"This the precious fruit I claim
For the labours of my manhood,
For the honour of my name.
I will make this empty canvas
Glow with an immortal life,
So that women may grow purer,
Men grow stronger for the strife;
I will fix in living colours,-
All of beauty, all of grace,
All of art divine and human,
Centred in one perfect Face.
I will stamp that high creation
As The Christ, the Anointed One,
As the Father's glorious Image,
Jesus, the Incarnate Son.
So shall men in reverent homage,
Bend to worship at His shrine,
Till they, too, shall catch the impress
Of the loveliness Divine.”
Months passed on, and still the painting Grew beneath the artist's hand,
As the perfect dream of beauty
That should human hearts command, Till the long, long work was finished, And he almost bowed in fear At the wondrous might of Genius
That had brought The God so near. Then men came, and saw, and wondered, And they told him how his name Should be handed down the ages On the registers of fame, How he, too, should join the army Of the master-minds of old, And by unborn sons and daughters All his glorious power be told. But the artist's soul was weary,
And the sweet young hopes were fled, And their words fell as the tear-drops Wept above the silent dead.
Deep, deep down, beneath their praises,
Lay a hunger unconfessed,
And the soul from outward beauty
Panted still for inward rest.
In his chamber sits the painter,
As the deepening shades of night
Hide the artist's great conception
From the weary watcher's sight.
Then drew near a gentle footstep,
Then a voice most sweet and calm,
Hushing like some Holiest Presence,
Soothing like some ancient psalm.
"Ah, my boy," it murmured ("boy" still
Though his more than forty years,
"Boy" still to the white-haired mother,
Through her tender prayers and tears),
"Thou hast sought to stamp thy genius
On the blessed Face of Him,
While before the Throne, cloud-circled
Bow the veiled cherubim.
Cold as are the snow-capped mountains
In the lands thy feet have trod,
Cold in all their stately beauty,
So are all thy thoughts of God;
Lifeless as the fabled statue,
Waiting for the breath divine
To inspire the silent marble,
So is this poor work of thine.
Ah, my son how could'st thou paint Him?
Thou hast never seen His face,
Thou hast never felt the touches
Of His soul-subduing Grace;
Ah, my son, how could'st thou paint Him?
He has never come to thee
In the watches of the morning
When the midnight shadows flee;
He has never stood beside thee
In thy hour of bitter woe,
He, the suffering Man of Sorrows,
Thou hast never seen Him so;
Thou hast never laid before Him
All thy sins, thy self, thy pride,
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