_Tintoretto’s thronged_ “_Procession to Calvary_” _and his_ “_Crucifixion_,” _incidentally named_, _are two of the greatest of his multitude of works in Venice_.
Master, thy enterprise, Magnificent, magnanimous, was well done, Which seized, the head of Art, and turned her eyes— The simpleton—and made her front the sun.
Long had she sat content, Her young unlessoned back to a morning gay, To a solemn noon, to a cloudy firmament, And looked upon a world in gentle day.
But thy imperial call Bade her to stand with thee and breast the light, And therefore face the shadows, mystical, Sombre, translucent, vestiges of night,
Yet glories of the day. Eagle! we know thee by thy undaunted eyes Sky-ward, and by thy glooms; we blow thy way Ambiguous, and those halo-misted dyes.
Thou Cloud, the bridegroom’s friend (The bridegroom sun)! Master, we know thy sign: A mystery of hues world-without-end; And hide-and-seek of gamesome and divine;
Shade of the noble head Cast hitherward upon the noble breast; Human solemnities thrice hallowèd; The haste to Calvary, the Cross at rest.
Look sunward, Angel, then! Carry the fortress-heavens by that hand; Still be the interpreter of suns to men; And shadow us, O thou Tower! for thou shalt stand.
A voice peals in this end of night A phrase of notes resembling stars, Single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars? The South, the past, the day to be, An ancient infelicity.
Darkling, deliberate, what sings This wonderful one, alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece, Dearer than Italy, untold Delight, and freshness centuries old?
And first first-loves, a multitude, The exaltation of their pain; Ancestral childhood long renewed; And midnights of invisible rain; And gardens, gardens, night and day, Gardens and childhood all the way.
What Middle Ages passionate, O passionless voice! What distant bells Lodged in the hills, what palace state Illyrian! For it speaks, it tells, Without desire, without dismay, Some morrow and some yesterday.
All-natural things! But more—Whence came This yet remoter mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim A graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear? _O innocent throat_! _O human ear_!