ALAS! not perfect yet--another touch, And still another, and another still, Till those dull lips breathe life, and yonder eye Lose its lack lustre hue, and be lit up With the warm glance of living feeling. No-- It never can be! Ah, poor, powerless art! Most vaunting, yet most impotent, thou seek'st To trace the thousand, thousand shades and lights That glowed conspicuous on the blessed face Of him thou fain wouldst imitate--to bind Down to the fragile canvas the wild play Of thought and mild affection, which were wont To dwell in the serious eye, and play around The placid mouth. Thou seek'st to give again That which the burning soul, inhabiting Its clay-built tenement, alone can give-- To leave on cold dead matter the impress Of living mind--to bid a line, a shade, Speak forth, not words, but the soft intercourse Which the immortal spirit, while on earth It tabernacles, breathes from every pore-- Thoughts not converted into words, and hopes, And fears, and hidden joys, and griefs, unborn Into the world of sound, but beaming forth In that expression which no words, or work Of cunning artist, can express. In vain, Alas! in vain! Come hither, Painter; come, Take up once more thine instruments--thy brush And palette--if thy haughty art be, as thou say'st, Omnipotent, and if thy hand can dare To wield creative power. Renew thy toil, And let my memory, vivified by love, Which Death's cold separation has but warmed And rendered sacred dictate to thy skill, And guide thy pencil. From the jetty hair Take off that gaudy lustre that but mocks The true original; and let the dry, Soft, gentle-turning locks, appear instead. What though to fashion's garish eye they seem Untutored and ungainly? still to me, Than folly's foppish head-gear, lovelier far Are they, because bespeaking mental toil, Labor assiduous, through the golden days (Golden if so improved) of guileless youth, Unwearied mining in the precious stores Of classic lore--and better, nobler still, In God's own holy writ. And scatter here And there a thread of grey, to mark the grief That prematurely checked the bounding flow Of the warm current in his veins, and shed An early twilight o'er so bright a dawn. No wrinkle sits upon that brow!--and thus It ever was. The angry strife and cares Of avaricious miser did not leave Their base memorial on so fair a page. The eyebrows next draw closer down, and throw A softening shade o'er the mild orbs below. Let the full eyelid, drooping, half conceal The back-retiring eye; and point to earth The long brown lashes that bespeak a soul Like his who said, "I am not worthy, Lord!" From underneath these lowly turning lids, Let not shine forth the gaily sparkling light Which dazzles oft, and oft deceives; nor yet The dull unmeaning lustre that can gaze Alike on all the world. But paint an eye In whose half-hidden, steady light I read A truth-inquiring mind; a fancy, too, That could array in sweet poetic garb The truth he found; while on his artless harp He touched the gentlest feelings, which the blaze Of winter's hearth warms in the homely heart. And oh! recall the look of faith sincere, With which that eye would scrutinize the page That tells us of offended God appeased By awful sacrifice upon the cross Of Calvary--that bids us leave a world Immersed in darkness and in death, and seek A better country. Ah! how oft that eye Would turn on me, with pity's tenderest look, And, only half-upbraiding, bid me flee From the vain idols of my boyish heart!
It was about the same time, while still feeling the sadness of this bereavement, that he wrote the fragment entitled