Literary Gazette, 26th July 1823, Page 474-475
ORIGINAL POETRY.
THE ARTIST'S STUDIO.
- - - - - - Methinks
Beauty should be around the beautiful,
And these fine Arts live in an atmosphere
Of light surrounded by thrice delicate shapes
Of grace and love.
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The light came dim, but beautiful, through blinds
Of the linked jessamine, which wooed the vine
With its white kisses; and a fragrant air,
Bearing low music from the wind-touched harp,
Came floating through the room. By glimpses seen,
As o'er the lattices the moonlight played
And lighted up its waters, shone the lake,
With its white swans, like spirits, gliding on
Its isles of floating lilies; and its banks,
Where swept the graceful willows, and the turf,
Silver'd with dew and star-light, spread beneath,
Dotted with clumps of gloomy cypresses,
Mixed with the fairer blossomed orange trees.
And far beyond, like shadowy thunder-clouds,
Rose high but distant hills; and over all
A soft and blue Italian sky,—the blue
That painters and that poets love,—the blue
The lover worships in the maiden's eyes,
Whose beauty is their power and spell. And, like
Sweet incense to sweet shrines, dew-scented flowers
Filled up the casements; roses, on whose leaves
The summer had just breathed ; the buds of pearl
That are the myrtle's dower; carnation stems,
Rich in their perfumed blushes—all were here,
Looking and breathing June. The marble floor
Had not one spot, save two or three rich stains
Cast from the pictured roof, on which is told
The history of Aurora and her love,
The earthly Youth she wooed, and wooed in vain,
Oh, love is very constant! 'tis most cold,
Untrue, and heartless raillery, to say
That love's life is not longer than those flowers
Whose sunrise beauty is by noontide past;
That it should ever change, is but the curse
Shadowing our every earthly happiness,
And for one record of its fickleness
Are thousand memories of its deep truth,
Its entire faith, its self-devotedness.—
