Mystery: Katharine, the bride of Christ. She kneels, and on her hand the holy Child Setteth the ring. Her life is sad and mild, Laid in God's knowledge—ever unenticed From Him, and in the end thus fitly priced. Awe, and the music that is near her, wrought Of Angels, hath possessed her eyes in thought: Her utter joy is her's, and hath sufficed. There is a pause while Mary Virgin turns The leaf, and reads. With eyes on the spread book, That damsel at her knees reads after her. John whom He loved and John His harbinger Listen and watch. Whereon soe'er thou look, The light is starred in gems, and the gold burns.
3. A Dance of Nymphs, by Andrea Mantegna; in the Louvre.
(It is necessary to mention, that this picture would appear to have been in the artist's mind an allegory, which the modern spectator may seek vainly to interpret.)
Scarcely, I think; yet it indeed may be The meaning reached him, when this music rang Sharp through his brain, a distinct rapid pang, And he beheld these rocks and that ridg'd sea. But I believe he just leaned passively, And felt their hair carried across his face As each nymph passed him; nor gave ear to trace How many feet; nor bent assuredly His eyes from the blind fixedness of thought To see the dancers. It is bitter glad Even unto tears. Its meaning filleth it, A portion of most secret life: to wit:— Each human pulse shall keep the sense it had With all, though the mind's labour run to nought.
4. A Venetian Pastoral, by Giorgione; in the Louvre.
(In this picture, two cavaliers and an undraped woman are seated in the grass, with musical instruments, while another woman dips a vase into a well hard by, for water.)
Water, for anguish of the solstice,—yea, Over the vessel's mouth still widening Listlessly dipt to let the water in With slow vague gurgle. Blue, and deep away, The heat lies silent at the brink of day. Now the hand trails upon the viol-string That sobs; and the brown faces cease to sing, Mournful with complete pleasure. Her eyes stray In distance; through her lips the pipe doth creep And leaves them pouting; the green shadowed grass Is cool against her naked flesh. Let be: Do not now speak unto her lest she weep,— Nor name this ever. Be it as it was:— Silence of heat, and solemn poetry.
5. “Angelica rescued from the Sea-monster,” by Ingres; in the Luxembourg.
A remote sky, prolonged to the sea's brim: One rock-point standing buffetted alone, Vexed at its base with a foul beast unknown, Hell-spurge of geomaunt and teraphim: A knight, and a winged creature bearing him, Reared at the rock: a woman fettered there, Leaning into the hollow with loose hair And throat let back and heartsick trail of limb. The sky is harsh, and the sea shrewd and salt. Under his lord, the griffin-horse ramps blind With rigid wings and tail. The spear's lithe stem Thrills in the roaring of those jaws: behind, The evil length of body chafes at fault. She doth not hear nor see—she knows of them.