On the Portrait of Laura Painted by Simon Memmi

Had Policletus seen her, or the restWho, in past time, won honour in this art,A thousand years had but the meaner partShown of the beauty which o'ercame my breast.But Simon sure, in Paradise the blest,Whence came this noble lady of my heart,Saw her, and took this wond'rous counterpartWhich should on earth her lovely face attest.The work, indeed, was one, in heaven aloneTo be conceived, not wrought by fellow-men,Over whose souls the body's veil is thrown:'Twas done of grace: and fail'd his pencil whenTo earth he turn'd our cold and heat to bear,And felt that his own eyes but mortal were.

Had Polycletus in proud rivalryOn her his model gazed a thousand years,Not half the beauty to my soul appears,In fatal conquest, e'er could he descry.But, Simon, thou wast then in heaven's blest sky,Ere she, my fair one, left her native spheres,To trace a loveliness this world reveresWas thus thy task, from heaven's reality.Yes--thine the portrait heaven alone could wake,This clime, nor earth, such beauty could conceive,Where droops the spirit 'neath its earthly shrine:The soul's reflected grace was thine to take,Which not on earth thy painting could achieve,Where mortal limits all the powers confine.

When, at my word, the high thought fired his mind,Within that master-hand which placed the pen,Had but the painter, in his fair work, thenLanguage and intellect to beauty join'd,Less 'neath its care my spirit since had pined,Which worthless held what still pleased other men;And yet so mild she seems that my fond kenOf peace sees promise in that aspect kind.When further communing I hold with herBenignantly she smiles, as if she heardAnd well could answer to mine every word:But far o'er mine thy pride and pleasure were,Bright, warm and young, Pygmalion, to have press'dThine image long and oft, while mine not once has blest.

When Simon at my wish the proud designConceived, which in his hand the pencil placed,Had he, while loveliness his picture graced,But added speech and mind to charms divine;What sighs he then had spared this breast of mine:That bliss had given to higher bliss distaste:For, when such meekness in her look was traced,'Twould seem she soon to kindness might incline.But, urging converse with the portray'd fair,Methinks she deigns attention to my prayer,Though wanting to reply the power of voice.What praise thyself, Pygmalion, hast thou gain'd;Forming that image, whence thou hast obtain'dA thousand times what, once obtain'd, would me rejoice.