The Virgin, Child and St. John

    Image: Lorenzo di Credi, Italian (1458 or 1459-1537). Madonna and Child with the Infant Saint John the Baptist, ca. 1510. Oil on panel with tempera highlights, 40 1/16 x 28 11/16 inches (101.8 x 72.9 cm). The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, Kansas City, Missouri. Purchase: William Rockhill Nelson Trust, 39-3. Photo: Melville McLean

    Lorenzo Di Credi

    Lord Dudley's Collection
     

    A SPREADING strawberry-tree
    Embowers an altar-throne ;
    Behind its leaves we see
    Fair waters blue in tone ;
    Sharp rocks confront the stream and soft
    Summits and misty towers :
    But sweet Madonna in a croft
    Is resting, brimmed with flowers.

    Anemones are here ;
    How sturdily they grow,
    Their brown-stemmed heads in clear
    Design against the flow
    Of the thin current scarce astir !
    Through scrambling cresses strike
    Petals of varied lavender

    In chalice and in spike.

    The summer light in streams
    Has fallen where it can stray
    On the blond girl who dreams
    So lazily all day.
    Dropt eyelids of a differing curve,
    Deep-dinted lips austere,
    Some curious grace of visage serve,
    Half-wayward, half-severe.

    No stain her cheek has got ;
    Its sun-blanch is complete,
    Save where one little spot
    Sweats, rosy with the heat.
    To keep that tender carmine free
    In lustre, the arbute
    Shields with a multiplicity
    Of leaves its crimson fruit.

    Of corn-flower blue, with gold
    Her simple dress is sewn,
    A cloak's cerulean fold
    About her feet is thrown.
    The lining of rich orange hue
    Is visible just where
    The brilliant and the paler blue
    Would cruelly compare.

    Mid windings of her wrap, 
    Her naked child upon
    The cradle of her lap
    Blesses adoring John,
    Whose flimsy, little shirt is tied
    With lilac scarf ; the slim,
    Gemmed crosier, propped against his side, 
    Is far too long for him.

    Her scarlet-sandalled foot
    Soft resting-place has found ;
    Cup-moss and daisy-root
    Are thick upon the ground

    Almost as in our English dells :
    But here is columbine
    And one of its pellucid bells
    Doth to the stream incline.

    How sweet to bless and pray
    And nothing understand,
    Warm in the lovely grey
    Of that illumined land.
    O boughs that such red berries bear,
    O river-side of flowers.
    No wonder Mary nurses there
    Her Babe through summer hours !

     

     

    Lorenzo Di Credi

    Lord Dudley's Collection
     

    A SPREADING strawberry-tree
    Embowers an altar-throne ;
    Behind its leaves we see
    Fair waters blue in tone ;
    Sharp rocks confront the stream and soft
    Summits and misty towers :
    But sweet Madonna in a croft
    Is resting, brimmed with flowers.

    Anemones are here ;
    How sturdily they grow,
    Their brown-stemmed heads in clear
    Design against the flow
    Of the thin current scarce astir !
    Through scrambling cresses strike
    Petals of varied lavender

    In chalice and in spike.

    The summer light in streams
    Has fallen where it can stray
    On the blond girl who dreams
    So lazily all day.
    Dropt eyelids of a differing curve,
    Deep-dinted lips austere,
    Some curious grace of visage serve,
    Half-wayward, half-severe.

    No stain her cheek has got ;
    Its sun-blanch is complete,
    Save where one little spot
    Sweats, rosy with the heat.
    To keep that tender carmine free
    In lustre, the arbute
    Shields with a multiplicity
    Of leaves its crimson fruit.

    Of corn-flower blue, with gold
    Her simple dress is sewn,
    A cloak's cerulean fold
    About her feet is thrown.
    The lining of rich orange hue
    Is visible just where
    The brilliant and the paler blue
    Would cruelly compare.

    Mid windings of her wrap, 
    Her naked child upon
    The cradle of her lap
    Blesses adoring John,
    Whose flimsy, little shirt is tied
    With lilac scarf ; the slim,
    Gemmed crosier, propped against his side, 
    Is far too long for him.

    Her scarlet-sandalled foot
    Soft resting-place has found ;
    Cup-moss and daisy-root
    Are thick upon the ground

    Almost as in our English dells :
    But here is columbine
    And one of its pellucid bells
    Doth to the stream incline.

    How sweet to bless and pray
    And nothing understand,
    Warm in the lovely grey
    Of that illumined land.
    O boughs that such red berries bear,
    O river-side of flowers.
    No wonder Mary nurses there
    Her Babe through summer hours !