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- EGO DOMINUS TUUS
-
- i{Hic.} On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
- Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
- A lamp burns on beside the open book
- That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,
- And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,
- Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,
- Magical shapes.
- i{Ille.} By the help of an image
- I call to my own opposite, summon all
- That I have handled least, least looked upon.
- i{Hic.} And I would find myself and not an image.
- i{Ille.} That is our modern hope, and by its light
- We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
- And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
- Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,
- We are but critics, or but half create,
- Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,
- Lacking the countenance of our friends.
- i{Hic.} And yet
- The chief imagination of Christendom,
- Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself
- That he has made that hollow face of his
- More plain to the mind's eye than any face
- But that of Christ.
- i{Ille.} And did he find himself
- Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
- A hunger for the apple on the bough
- Most out of reach? and is that spectral image
- The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?
- I think he fashioned from his opposite
- An image that might have been a stony face
- Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof
- From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned
- Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.
- He set his chisel to the hardest stone.
- Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life,
- Derided and deriding, driven out
- To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,
- He found the unpersuadable justice, he found
- The most exalted lady loved by a man.
- i{Hic.} Yet surely there are men who have made their art
- Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,
- Impulsive men that look for happiness
- And sing when t"hey have found it.
- i{Ille.} No, not sing,
- For those that love the world serve it in action,
- Grow rich, popular and full of influence,
- And should they paint or write, still it is action:
- The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
- The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,
- The sentimentalist himself; while art
- Is but a vision of reality.
- What portion in the world can the artist have
- Who has awakened from the common dream
- But dissipation and despair?
- i{Hic.} And yet
- No one denies to Keats love of the world;
- Remember his deliberate happiness.
- i{Ille.} His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
- I see a schoolboy when I think of him,
- With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,
- For certainly he sank into his grave
- His senses and his heart unsatisfied,
- And made -- being poor, ailing and ignorant,
- Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
- The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper --
- Luxuriant song.
- i{Hic.} Why should you leave the lamp
- Burning alone beside an open book,
- And trace these characters upon the sands?
- A style is found by sedentary toil
- And by the imitation of great masters.
- i{Zlle.} Because I seek an image, n-ot a book.
- Those men that in their writings are most wise,
- Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
- I call to the mysterious one who yet
- Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream
- And look most like me, being indeed my double,
- And prove of all imaginable things
- The most unlike, being my anti-self,
- And, standing by these characters, disclose
- All that I seek; and whisper it as though
- He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
- Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
- Would carry it away to blasphemous men.
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