Rome.

Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.—Correggio—Guido —Raphael, etc.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen. —Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story

  Touches all hearts—for there we see thee.

The soul's corruption and its glory,

  Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find

  Thy spirit haunted by a swarm

Of dark desires,—like demons shrined

  Unholily in that fair form,—

Till when by touch of Heaven set free,

  Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold

(So oft the gaze of BETHANY),

  And covering in their precious fold

Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears

As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—

Thence on thro' all thy course of love

  To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him

Whose bitter death-cup from above

  Had yet this cordial round the brim,

That woman's faith and love stood fast

And fearless by Him to the last:—

Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine!

  Thou wert of all the chosen one,

Before whose eyes that Face Divine

  When risen from the dead first shone;

That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,

Had past away its mortal shroud,

And make that bright revealment known

To hearts less trusting than thy own.

All is affecting, cheering, grand;

  The kindliest record ever given,

Even under God's own kindly hand,

  Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face,

  In all its touching light of tears,

Should meet us in each holy place,

  Where Man before his God appears,

Hopeless—were he not taught to see

All hope in Him who pardoned thee!

No wonder that the painter's skill

  Should oft have triumpht in the power

Of keeping thee all lovely still

  Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;

That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse

  His melting shadows round thy form;

That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues

  Should in portraying thee grow warm;

That all—from the ideal, grand,

Inimitable Roman hand,

Down to the small, enameling touch

  Of smooth CARLINO—should delight

In picturing her, "who loved so much,"

  And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

  But MARY, 'mong these bold essays

Of Genius and of Art to raise

A semblance of those weeping eyes—

  A vision worthy of the sphere

Thy faith has earned thee in the skies,

  And in the hearts of all men here,—

None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace,

CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face,

In those bright sculptured forms, more bright

With true expression's breathing light,

Than ever yet beneath the stroke

Of chisel into life awoke.

The one,[1] portraying what thou wert

  In thy first grief,—while yet the flower

Of those young beauties was unhurt

  By sorrow's slow, consuming power;

And mingling earth's seductive grace

  With heaven's subliming thoughts so well,

We doubt, while gazing, in which place

  Such beauty was most formed to dwell!—

The other, as thou look'dst, when years

Of fasting, penitence and tears

Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art

  With half such speaking power express

The ruin which a breaking heart

  Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness.

Those wasting arms, that keep the trace,

Even still, of all their youthful grace,

That loosened hair of which thy brow

Was once so proud,—neglected now!—

Those features even in fading worth

  The freshest bloom to others given,

And those sunk eyes now lost to earth

  But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine—

  Tho' springing from a soul that feels

Deep worship of those works divine

  Where Genius all his light reveals—

How weak 'tis to the words that came

From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2]

Whom I have known, by day, by night,

Hang o'er thy marble with delight;

And while his lingering hand would steal

  O'er every grace the taper's rays[3]

Give thee with all the generous zeal

Such master spirits only feel,

  That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.