Sen Artysty

Or, The Artist’s Dream

From the Polish of Madame Helena Modjeska

I too have had my dreams: ay, indeed knownThe crowded visions of a fiery youthWhich haunt me still.

Methought that once I layWithin some garden close, what time the SpringBreaks like a bird from Winter, and the skyIs sapphire-vaulted. The pure air was soft,And the deep grass I lay on soft as air.The strange and secret life of the young treesSwelled in the green and tender bark, or burstTo buds of sheathèd emerald; violetsPeered from their nooks of hiding, half afraidOf their own loveliness; the vermeil roseOpened its heart, and the bright star-flowerShone like a star of morning. Butterflies,In painted liveries of brown and gold,Took the shy bluebells as their pavilionsAnd seats of pleasaunce; overhead a birdMade snow of all the blossoms as it flewTo charm the woods with singing: the whole worldSeemed waking to delight!And yet⁠—and yet⁠—My soul was filled with leaden heaviness:I had no joy in Nature; what to me,Ambition’s slave, was crimson-stainèd roseOr the gold-sceptred crocus? The bright birdSang out of tune for me, and the sweet flowersSeemed but a pageant, and an unreal showThat mocked my heart; for, like the fabled snakeThat stings itself to anguish, so I laySelf-tortured, self-tormented.The day creptUnheeded on the dial, till the sunDropt, purple-sailed, into the gorgeous East,When, from the fiery heart of that great orb,Came One whose shape of beauty far outshoneThe most bright vision of this common earth.Girt was she in a robe more white than flameOr furnace-heated brass; upon her headShe bare a laurel crown, and, like a starThat falls from the high heaven suddenly,Passed to my side.Then kneeling low, I cried“O much-desired! O long-waited for!Immortal Glory! Great world-conqueror!Oh, let me not die crownless; once, at least,Let thine imperial laurels bind my brows,Ignoble else. Once let the clarion noteAnd trump of loud ambition sound my name,And for the rest I care not.”Then to me,In gentle voice, the angel made reply:“Child, ignorant of the true happiness,Nor knowing life’s best wisdom, thou wert madeFor light and love and laughter, not to wasteThy youth in shooting arrows at the sun,Or nurturing that ambition in thy soulWhose deadly poison will infect thy heart,Marring all joy and gladness! Tarry hereIn the sweet confines of this garden-closeWhose level meads and glades delectableInvite for pleasure; the wild bird that wakesThese silent dells with sudden melodyShall be thy playmate; and each flower that blowsShall twine itself unbidden in thy hair⁠—Garland more meet for thee than the dread weightOf Glory’s laurel wreath.”“Ah! fruitless gifts,”I cried, unheeding of her prudent word,“Are all such mortal flowers, whose brief livesAre bounded by the dawn and setting sun.The anger of the noon can wound the rose,And the rain rob the crocus of its gold;But thine immortal coronal of Fame,Thy crown of deathless laurel, this aloneAge cannot harm, nor winter’s icy toothPierce to its hurt, nor common things profane.”No answer made the angel, but her faceDimmed with the mists of pity.Then methoughtThat from mine eyes, wherein ambition’s torchBurned with its latest and most ardent flame,Flashed forth two level beams of straitened light,Beneath whose fulgent fires the laurel crownTwisted and curled, as when the Sirian starWithers the ripening corn, and one pale leafFell on my brow; and I leapt up and feltThe mighty pulse of Fame, and heard far offThe sound of many nations praising me!

One fiery-coloured moment of great life!And then⁠—how barren was the nations’ praise!How vain the trump of Glory! Bitter thornsWere in that laurel leaf, whose toothèd barbsBurned and bit deep till fire and red flameSeemed to feed full upon my brain, and makeThe garden a bare desert.With wild handsI strove to tear it from my bleeding brow,But all in vain; and with a dolorous cryThat paled the lingering stars before their time,I waked at last, and saw the timorous dawnPeer with grey face into my darkened room,And would have deemed it a mere idle dreamBut for this restless pain that gnaws my heart,And the red wounds of thorns upon my brow.