Avenues of broad white houses,
Basking in the noontide glare;—
Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from,
As on hot plates shrinks the bear;—
Elsewhere lawns, and vista’d gardens,
Statues white, and cool arcades,
Where at eve the German warrior
Winks upon the German maids;—
Such is Munich:—broad and stately,
Rich of hue, and fair of form;
But, towards the end of August,
Unequivocally warm.
There, the long dim galleries threading,
May the artist’s eye behold,
Breathing from the “deathless canvass”
Records of the years of old:
Pallas there, and Jove, and Juno,
“Take” once more “their walks abroad,”
Under Titian’s fiery woodlands
And the saffron skies of Claude:
There the Amazons of Rubens
Lift the failing arm to strike,
And the pale light falls in masses
On the horsemen of Vandyke;
And in Berghem’s pools reflected
Hang the cattle’s graceful shapes,
And Murillo’s soft boy-faces
Laugh amid the Seville grapes;
And all purest, loveliest fancies
That in poets’ souls may dwell
Started into shape and substance
At the touch of Raphael.—
Lo! her wan arms folded meekly,
And the glory of her hair
Falling as a robe around her,
Kneels the Magdalene in prayer;
And the white-robed Virgin-mother
Smiles, as centuries back she smiled,
Half in gladness, half in wonder,
On the calm face of her Child:—