A 'Sant' Imagine'

    Fiorenzo di Lorenzo

    The Städel’sche Institut at Frankfurt

    A HOLY Picture—variably fair 
    In colour and fantastic in device !
    With what an ecstasy is laid 
    The pattern of this red brocade, 
    Blood-red above Madonna's seat for glory ; 
    But gold and black behind the victor-two 
    Who, full in view 
    Of the great, central form, in thought 
    Live through the martyrdom they wrought
    Afresh, with finer senses, suffer and despair. 
    Why is their story 
    Set in such splendour one must note the nice 
    Edge of the arras and the glancing tone 
    Of jacinth floor, pale rose before the Virgin's throne ? 

    A young St. Christopher, with Umbria's blue 
    Clear in his eyes, stands nobly to the right 
    And questions how the thing may hap 
    The little, curious, curled-up chap, 
    That clings almost astride upon his shoulder 
    And with uncertain baby-fingers lays 
    A pat of praise 
    On the crisp, propping head, should press 
    Upon him to acute distress. 
    Vainly he turns ; within the child's eyes is no clue ; 
    And he with colder 
    Heart must give succour to the sad in plight : 
    To him no secrets of his doom are known ; 
    Who suffers fate to load must bear the load alone. 

    And wherefore doth Madonna thus look down 
    So wistful toward the book upon her knees ? 
    Has she no comfort ? Is there need 
    Within the Scriptures she should read 
    Who to the living Word her bosom presses ? 
    With bliss of her young Babe so near, 
    Is it not drear 
    Darkly from books to understand 
    What bodes his coming to the land ? 
    Alas, as any other child he catches at her gown 
    And, with caresses. 
    Breaks on her still Magnificat : to ease 
    And give air to her spirit with her own 
    Christ she must hold communion in great songs alone. 

    She bows and sheds no comfort on the boy 
    Whose face turns on her full of bleeding tears, 
    Sebastian, with the arrows' thrill 
    Intolerable to him still, 
    Full of an agony that has no measure,
    That cannot rise, grow to the height and wane, 
    Being simple pain 
    That to his nature is as bound 
    As anguish to the viol's sound : 
    He suffers as the sensitive enjoy ; 
    And, as their pleasure. 
    His pain is hid from common eyes and ears. 
    Wide-gaping as for air, breathing no moan,
    His delicate, exhausted lips are open thrown. 

    And now back to the picture's self we come, 
    Its subtle, glowing spirit ; turn our eyes 
    From those grave, isolated, strange 
    Figures, to feel how sweet the range 
    Of colour in the marbles, with what grace is 
    Sebastian's porphyry-column reared aloft ! 
    How waving, soft 
    And fringed the palm-branch of the stave 
    Saint Christopher exalts !—they must have all things brave 
    About them who are born for martyrdom : 
    The fine, stern faces 
    Refuse so steadily what they despise ; 
    The world will never mix them with her own— 
    They choose the best, and with the best are left alone. 

    Fiorenzo di Lorenzo

    The Städel’sche Institut at Frankfurt

    A HOLY Picture—variably fair 
    In colour and fantastic in device !
    With what an ecstasy is laid 
    The pattern of this red brocade, 
    Blood-red above Madonna's seat for glory ; 
    But gold and black behind the victor-two 
    Who, full in view 
    Of the great, central form, in thought 
    Live through the martyrdom they wrought
    Afresh, with finer senses, suffer and despair. 
    Why is their story 
    Set in such splendour one must note the nice 
    Edge of the arras and the glancing tone 
    Of jacinth floor, pale rose before the Virgin's throne?

    A young St. Christopher, with Umbria's blue 
    Clear in his eyes, stands nobly to the right 
    And questions how the thing may hap 
    The little, curious, curled-up chap, 
    That clings almost astride upon his shoulder 
    And with uncertain baby-fingers lays 
    A pat of praise 
    On the crisp, propping head, should press 
    Upon him to acute distress. 
    Vainly he turns ; within the child's eyes is no clue ; 
    And he with colder 
    Heart must give succour to the sad in plight : 
    To him no secrets of his doom are known ; 
    Who suffers fate to load must bear the load alone. 

    And wherefore doth Madonna thus look down 
    So wistful toward the book upon her knees ? 
    Has she no comfort ? Is there need 
    Within the Scriptures she should read 
    Who to the living Word her bosom presses ? 
    With bliss of her young Babe so near, 
    Is it not drear 
    Darkly from books to understand 
    What bodes his coming to the land ? 
    Alas, as any other child he catches at her gown 
    And, with caresses. 
    Breaks on her still Magnificat : to ease 
    And give air to her spirit with her own 
    Christ she must hold communion in great songs alone. 

    She bows and sheds no comfort on the boy 
    Whose face turns on her full of bleeding tears, 
    Sebastian, with the arrows' thrill 
    Intolerable to him still, 
    Full of an agony that has no measure,
    That cannot rise, grow to the height and wane, 
    Being simple pain 
    That to his nature is as bound 
    As anguish to the viol's sound : 
    He suffers as the sensitive enjoy ; 
    And, as their pleasure. 
    His pain is hid from common eyes and ears. 
    Wide-gaping as for air, breathing no moan,
    His delicate, exhausted lips are open thrown. 

    And now back to the picture's self we come, 
    Its subtle, glowing spirit ; turn our eyes 
    From those grave, isolated, strange 
    Figures, to feel how sweet the range 
    Of colour in the marbles, with what grace is 
    Sebastian's porphyry-column reared aloft ! 
    How waving, soft 
    And fringed the palm-branch of the stave 
    Saint Christopher exalts !—they must have all things brave 
    About them who are born for martyrdom : 
    The fine, stern faces 
    Refuse so steadily what they despise ; 
    The world will never mix them with her own— 
    They choose the best, and with the best are left alone.