That his ideal Mary-smile should stand
So very near him!—he, within the brink
Of all that glory, let in by his hand
With too divine a rashness! Yet none shrink
Who gaze here now—albeit the thing is planned
Sublimely in the thought's simplicity.
The Virgin, throned in empyreal state,
Minds only the young babe upon her knee;
While, each side, angels bear the royal weight,
Prostrated meekly, smiling tenderly
Oblivion of their wings! the Child thereat
Stretches its hand like God. If any should,
Because of some stiff draperies and loose joints,
Gaze scorn down from the heights of Raffaelhood,
On Cimabue's picture,—Heaven anoints
The head of no such critic, and his blood
The poet's curse strikes full on, and appoints
To ague and cold spasms for evermore.
A noble picture! worthy of the shout
Wherewith along the streets the people bore
Its cherub faces, which the sun threw out
Until they stooped and entered the church door!
Yet rightly was young Giotto talked about,
Whom Cimabue found among the sheep,[1]
And knew, as gods know gods, and carried home
To paint the things he painted, with a deep
And fuller insight, and so overcome
His chapel-Virgin with a heavenlier sweep
Of light. For thus we mount into the sum
Of great things known or acted. I hold, too,
- ↑ How Cimabue found Giotto, the shepherd-boy, sketching a ram of his flock upon a stone, is a pretty story told by Vasari, who also relates how the elder artist Margheritone died "infastidito" of the successes of the new school.
