[TO BE CONTINUED.]
From The St. James Magazine.
PROPERZIA ROSSI.
Properzia Rossi, a female artist, celebrated for her misfortunes, though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music, died of a broken heart, just as Pope Clement VII. had invited her to Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San Petronio at Bologna.
Too late—oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.
I am no more the artist idly proud,
But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway;
But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
Her pulses throbbing, and her heart-strings torn,
Looking above—sad, humbled, and alone—
Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne—
Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave!
What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
Were of misused. I thirst to be forgiven.
Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd.
And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught!
Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face;
Implore for pardon with intense distress,
And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
Oh, what avails it that aerial forms.
And colors vivid as the bow of storms.
Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell?
Say, have I used these varied talents well?
Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
Beautiful models from the marble cold?
Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?—
Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
And by religion consecrated art?
Have the fair features and bright hues I wove'
In one dark breast illumed the spark of love?
Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
To pure devotion's memorable joys?
Oh, have the gifts of music and of song
Soothed one sad being of the human throng?—
Angelic thoughts—submissive, hopeful, kind—
Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind?
And has my genius, with a potent sway,
Gilded the road to heaven—that straight and narrow way?
God has been very bounteous; he has given
Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
The threefold cords [Footnote 37] of talismanic power
Were meant to yield employment for the hour—
Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain—
Brief as the April drops of sunny rain;
And yet by mercy recompensed above,
If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
That voice grows louder as my strength decays,—
Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
And of a judgment awfully sublime!
Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent.
Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!
[Footnote 37: Music, painting, and sculpture.]