The Continental Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 3, March, 1864

He has an intelligible and correct theory in regard to the fidelity of art to nature. For instance, he insists that he should represent, not imitate; and in making a bust of a man, the sculptor should express the higher moods of his subject, and show him with his better qualities brought to the surface. So the forms of nature should be idealized in the direction of their primitive tendency, and thus art help to express that ineffable longing of the soul, that reaching upward for a perfection that is approximated on earth, but never attained. This idealization is like the humor of Dickens, something more than nature in its grotesqueness, yet a stimulated growth of the natural quality. Palmer always takes nature for his model, and then assimilates it to that ideal beauty which dwells in his imagination and sheds a spiritual halo over the creation of his chisel.

Like every true disciple of genius, he feels that he has a mission to perform, and that he is responsible for the influence he exerts on the tastes and æsthetic culture of the people. As you chat with him in his studio, dressed in his blouse and cap, his dark eye glowing with enthusiasm for his art, or sparkling with playful humor, standing before you tall and vigorous, you see in him one of the earnest workers for the elevation of our humanity.

The utilities of the world will take care of themselves: let us foster the beautiful, because, like all divine attributes, man reaches it through striving, and is made better by its contemplation.

Palmer does not look older than forty, and has perhaps not yet attained the fulness of his powers, but has in him the elements of a healthy growth.

Work on, thou almoner of sweetest joys, thou pilgrim in that fairy realm whence come the high ideals of life; work on, striver for the perfect type of beauty and of truth, and in thy progress let the people trace our human nature rising to diviner heights—expanding to sublimer bounds!

CLOUDS

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO PROFESSOR GUYOT

High and fathomless above us vaults the pure aerial sky,
Solemn bends its arch of Beauty round a world where all things die.

On the dome through which Earth's swinging, spun of palpitating air,
Angel artists fresco vapors into pictures passing fair.

No cold canvas of dead color has the Mighty Master given:
Trembles with His Infinity the azure vault of Heaven.

On and in the lucent background float the ever-changeful forms,
Sometimes glowing into glory, sometimes glooming into storms.

God's blest seal is on creation; signs and symbols throng the sky,
Though too dull to read their meaning droops the stolid human eye.

Over mountain, over valley throng the clouds to soothe the sight;
Through the dim walls of the city gleam they buoyant, fleeting, bright.

Gentle, dreadful, or fantastic—nearer, farther as we gaze;
Varied, spiritual, tender, forms and melts the surging haze.

'Heavenly secrets' breathe around us—lowly flowers on the sod,
Cloudland's curves and grading colors veil the Infinite of God.

The Infinite—we shudder! but wild longings through us steal
As we vainly strive to grasp It till our failing senses reel.

Ever longing, never grasping, though in tenderness It stoop
To shade the scented cups of flowers, to bend them as they droop.

For through infinite gradations pass the changeful hues of light,
That the infinite through color may send greetings to the sight.

Through ne'er-returning, endless curves, flowers, trees, clouds, mountains pass,
That man may see the Infinite through nature's magic glass.

Oh, tender stooping! soothing! Infinite Love must be
The cause, aim, end, the burning heart of everything we see.

Earth may cover deep her dying, parted hearts chant weary dirge,
But we feel death is but seeming in the Cloudland's evening surge.

CIRRUS

Floating high above the mountains, in the fields of upper air,
Multitudinous throng the Cirri, ranged in order, heavenly fair.

Rank upon rank in glory lie the transverse, plumy bars;
Tranquil beauty rules the union which disorder never mars.

Perfect symmetry, obedience, mark their finely chiselled lines—
In the highest sphere of being flexile grace with law combines.

Now they break in fleecy ripples as innumerably they press;
Shines the blue of Heaven between them as they fly the Wind's caress.

Millions fleck the face of Heaven, but no two alike are ever:
Restless mirror of the Infinite, form seems exhausted never.

Are they lambs 'mid Heaven's blue pastures? are they swans with downy breast
Floating through that azure ocean round the region of the Blest?

Are they snowy wings of Cherubs gathering round the Throne above,
As the vesper hymn of Heaven rises to the Eternal Love?

Gazing on their wavy ripples, they seem mingling with the sky,
Yet the heavenly little islets still innumerable lie.

How the fleecy cloudlets glitter as they sail so clear and high!
Is light curdling into snowflakes as it streams athwart the sky?

Freezing? No—warm and glowing, ambient, changeful, feathery, bright,
Rather seem the floating vapors melting into roseate light.

With the white flame in their bosoms, and the pure blue depths above,
When the sunset rays dart kisses, how they kindle into love!

See, with every shaft electric flash the bright hues deeper, higher,
Till the chaste and snowy cloudlets fleck the Blue of Heaven with fire.

How they flush and how they quiver! how the virgin drifts of snow
Drink the sunset's dying passion, catch his ardent parting glow!

Love weaves close in chords harmonic all the finely fretted dome,
Blue, white, purple, gold, and crimson, fringe, melt, ripple into foam.