The Bones of Raphael

Wave upon wave, the human ocean stream'd
Along the chancel of the solemn pile;
And, with a softer day, the tapers beam'd
Upon the Bier within the vaulted aisle:--
And, mingled with the crowd, I halted there
And ask'd a Roman scholar by my side,
What sainted dust invoked the common prayer?
"Stranger!" the man, as in disdain, replied,
"Nine days already hath the Disinterr'd
Been given again to mortal eye, and all
The great of Rome, the Conclave and the Pope,
Have flock'd to grace the second funeral
Of him whose soul, until it fled, like Hope,
Gave Beauty to the World:--But haply thou,
A dweller of the North, hast never heard
Of one who, if no saint in waking life,
Communed in dreams with angels, and transferr'd
The heaven in which we trust his soul is now
To the mute canvas.--Underneath that pall
Repose the bones of Raphael!"
Not a word
I answer'd, but in awe I drew more near,
And saw the crowd toil on in busy strife,
Eager which first should touch the holy bier,
I ask'd a boor, more earnest than the rest,
"Whose bones are these?"
"I know not what his name;
But, since the Pope and Conclave have been here,
Doubtless a famous Saint!"
The Boor express'd
The very thought the wandering stranger guess'd.
Which wiser, he, the Scholar, who had sneer'd
To hear the Stranger canonize the Dead;
Or they, the Boor, the Stranger, who revered
The Saint, where he the Artist?--Answer, Fame,
Whose Saints are not the Calendar's! Perchance
Tasso and Raphael, age to age, have given
The earth a lustre more direct from Heaven
Than San Gennaro, or thy Dennis, France;
Or English George!--Read History.--
Were gone, I slipp'd some coins into the hand
Of a grave-visaged Priest, who took his stand
Beside the Bier, and bade him lift the shroud;
And there I paused, and gazed upon the all
The Worm had spared to Raphael.--He had died,
As sang the Alfieri of our land,
In the embrace of Beauty--beautiful
Himself as Cynthia's lover!--That, the skull
Once pillow'd on soft bosoms, which still rise
With passionate life, in canvas;--in the void
Of those blank sockets shone the starry eyes,
That, like the stars, found home in heaven! The pall
With its dark hues, gave forth, in gleaming white,
The delicate bones; for still an undestroy'd
Beauty, amidst decay, appear'd to dwell
About the mournful relics; and the light,
In crownlike halo, lovingly did fall
On the broad brow,--the hush'd and ruin'd cell
Of the old Art--Nature's sweet Oracle!
Believe or not, no horror seem'd to wrap
What has most horror for our life--the Dead:
The sleep slept soft, as in a mother's lap,
As if the Genius of the Grecian Death,
That with a kiss inhaled the parting breath,
That, wing'd for Heaven, stood by the charnel porch,
Lowering, with looks of love, th' extinguish'd torch,
Had taken watch beside the narrow bed;
And from the wrecks of the beloved clay
Had scared, with guardian eyes, each ghastlier shape away!
Come, Moralist, with truths of tritest worth,
And tell us how "to this complexion" all
That beautify the melancholy earth
"Must come at last!" The little and the low,
The mob of common men, rejoice to know
How the grave levels with themselves the great:
For something in the envy of the small
Still loves the vast Democracy of Death!
But flatter not yourselves--in death the fate
Of Genius still divides itself from yours:
Yea, ev'n upon the earth! For Genius lives
Not in your life--it does not breathe your breath,
It does not share your charnels;--but insures
In death itself the life that life survives!
Genius to you what most you value gave,
The noisy forum and the glittering mart,
The solid goods and mammon of the world,
In these your life--and these with life depart!
Grudge not what Genius to itself shall claim--
A life that lived but in the dreams of Art,
A world whose sunshine was the smile from Fame.
These die not, Moralist, when all are hurl'd,
Fasces and sceptre, in the common grave:--
Genius, in life or death, is still the same--
Death but makes deathless what Life ask'd--THE NAME.