Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, "O blessed soul! with nothing to confess Save virtues and good deeds, which she mis- takes-
So humble is she for our human sins!" Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark That rocks upon one billow, and can make No onward motion towards her port of hope. At length, one morn, when those around her said, 'Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face," One morn in spring, when every flower of earth Was opening to the sun, and breathing up Its votive incense, her impatient soul Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; Then turned with anger on the messenger; Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears As love sheds only, and love only once.
Hung to a spar and fought against the waves. The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve, Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes.
Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night In state within the chapel? Shall it be
| That earth must lose her wholly that no hint Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips That talked in silence, and the eager soul That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, And scattering glory round it, shall all these Be dull corruption's heritage, and we, Poor beggars, have no legacy to show That love she bore us? That were shame to love, And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back
As though they let a spectre through. Then he,
Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die, Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice
And leave behind no shadow ? not a trace
Of all the glory that environed her,
That mellow nimbus circling round my star?" So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, He paced along his gallery of art,
And strode among the painters, where they stood, With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, Studying the Masters by the dawning light Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count, As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, Packed with the secret of a coming storm, Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,
Deadening their splendor. In a moment still Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd; And a great shadow overwhelmed them all, As their white faces and their anxious eyes Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. He paused, as one who balances a doubt, Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: "Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; Or has the dial ceased to register The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, That almost cracks its frame in utterance ; The Countess, she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo
And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck
His splendid features full upon the brow,
Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay The Countess Laura at the altar's foot. Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows ; A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers,
Draped her still body almost to the chin; And over all a thousand candles flamed Against the winking jewels, or streamed down The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.
When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head
He could not have appeared more scathed and Drooped down so low that all his shining curls blanched.
Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance.
"Dead! - dead!" He staggered to his easel. Upon his easel a half-finished work,
And clung around it, buffeting the air
With one wild arm, as though a drowning man
The secret labor of his studio,
Said from the canvas, so that none might err, "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled,
And gazed upon the picture; as if thus, To those who came thus near thee for I stood Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to Without the pale of thy half-royal rank ·
Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, Emerging from his dream, and standing firm Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!" Confidingly and softly to the corpse, And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art Against his fancy, he addressed himself With stolid resolution to his task, Turning his vision on his memory, And shutting out the present, till the dead, The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, And all the meaning of that solemn scene Became as nothing, and creative Art Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed The elements according to her law :
So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked
The settled purpose of Omnipotence.
And it was wondrous how the red, the white, The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; How just beneath the lucid skin the blood Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; How the light glittered through and underneath The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes Became intelligent with conscious thought, And somewhat troubled underneath the arch Of eyebrows but a little too intense For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot Suggested life just ceased from motion; so That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, "That creature lives, - has senses, mind, a soul To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties !"
The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!' Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch To give or soften. "It is done," he cried, "My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" The lofty flame, which bore him up so long, Died in the ashes of humanity; And the mere man rocked to and fro again Upon the centre of his wavering heart. He put aside his palette, as if thus He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed A mortal function in the common world. "Now for my rights!" he muttered, and ap- proached
The noble body. "O lily of the world! So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou
When thou wast budding, and the streams of life Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews
On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! I say this but in justice, not in pride, Not to insult thy high nobility,
But that the poise of things in God's own sight May be adjusted; and hereafter I
May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad. Laura, you loved me ! Look not so severe, With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips!
You proved it, Countess, when you died for it, Let it consume you in the wearing strife It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. I knew it ever since that summer day
I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child, At rest beside the fountain; when I felt - O Heaven! the warmth and moisture of your
Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul Forgetting soul and body go as one— You leaned across my easel till our cheeks Ah me! 't was not your purpose touched, and
Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught? I ween it wears as proud a diadem Here, in this very world as that you wear. A king has held my palette, a grand-duke Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged The favor of my presence in his Rome.
I did not go; I put my fortune by.
I need not ask you why: you knew too well. It was but natural, it was no way strange, That I should love you. Everything that saw, Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet, And I among them. Martyr, holy saint, I see the halo curving round your head, I loved you once; but now I worship you, For the great deed that held my love aloof, And killed you in the action! I absolve Your soul from any taint. For from the day Of that encounter by the fountain-side Until this moment, never turned on me Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong To nature by the cold, defiant glare With which they chilled me. Never heard I word Of softness spoken by those gentle lips ; Never received a bounty from that hand Which gave to all the world. You did your duty, --not for honor's sake, Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse, Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame,
But for the sake of that pure, loyal love Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God, I bow before the lustre of your throne ! I kiss the edges of your garment-hem, And hold myself ennobled ! Answer me, If I had wronged you, you would answer me Out of the dusty porches of the tomb : Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!" A voice replied; and at his side he saw
A form, half shadow and half substance, stand, Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth
It had no footing, more than some dense mist That wavers o'er the surface of the ground It scarcely touches. With a reverent look The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent Above the picture; as though greater awe Subdued its awful being, and appalled, With memories of terrible delight And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze. "You make what God makes,
A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame,
Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face With nameless torture. But he cried aloud, Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine! Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand, And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see- "Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure These vile abominations! Shall she bear Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice, While God is justice?" Who has made you judge
Of what you call God's good, and what you think God's evil? One to him, the source of both, The God of good and of permitted ill. Have you no dream of days that might have been, Had you and Laura filled another fate?Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, beauty," said Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? I tell you that this tranquil dream may be Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, And land you where the mountain-goat himself Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, And all the chapel darkened, as though hell Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, As of the waters of a nether sea.
"And might not this, this second Eve, console The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh ? Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, Stand baffled and disarmed.
More than God's power, from nothing to create?" The artist gazed upon the boding form, And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart, That were an idle question. What to me Is my creative power, bereft of love?
Or what to God would be that self-same power, If so bereaved?" And yet the love, thus mourned,
You calmly forfeited. For had you said To living Laura in her burning ears — One half that you professed to Laura dead, She would have been your own. These contraries Sort not with my intelligence. But speak, Were Laura living, would the same stale play Of raging passion tearing out its heart Upon the rock of duty be performed ?” "The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you This Laura, give her all the bloom and glow Of that midsummer day you hold so dear, The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul, The love of genius, - yea, the very love, The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love, She bore you, flesh to flesh, would you receive That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?" A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips, And glittered in the caverns of his eyes, Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook;
Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice: "I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! Know my full meaning, I who neither fear Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name For my deliverance from your toils. I stand Upon the founded structure of his law, Established from the first, and thence defy Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!" The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw The figure gathering, as from outer space, Brightness on brightness; and his former shape Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, And show a core of mellow fire within. Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; And o'er the tresses of his beaming head Arose a stream of many-colored light, Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stoo Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up The outstretched palms of his untainted soul Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus,
With reverential wonder quivering through
His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art | Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
"Then take my hand, if so God orders it; For Laura waits me." 66 But, bethink thee, man, What the world loses in the loss of thee! What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse ! What unwon glories are in store for thee! What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, Would shine upon the letters of thy name Graven in marble, or the brazen height Of columns wise with memories of thee !" "Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, I could but paint those features o'er and o'er : Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven, With deep inquiry in his tender eyes.
That he may call it up when far away.
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
The mandate came. He touched with downy wing But richly carved by Antony of Trent
The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; And gently, as the skylark settles down Upon the clustered treasures of her nest, So Carlo softly slid along the prop Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot
With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, That, by the way it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not
As though he slumbered; and the morning broke When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. In silver whiteness over Padua.
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, Enter the house prythee, forget it not And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race;
Done by Zampieri - but I care not whom. He who observes it, ere he passes on,
She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire ; Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, When all sate down, the bride was wanting there,
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, "Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed. But that she was not!
Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" "T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished, -save a nuptial-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "GINEVRA."
There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.
THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, And keeping their Christmas holiday. The baron beheld with a father's pride His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride; While she with her bright eyes seemed to be The star of the goodly company.
"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried ; "Here tarry a moment, I'll hide, I'll hide! And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace The clew to my secret lurking-place." Away she ran, - and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."
They sought her that night, and they sought her next day,
And they sought her in vain when a week passed
In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.
And years flew by, and their grief at last Was told as a sorrowful tale long past; And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, "See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride.'
At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, Was found in the castle, they raised the lid, And a skeleton form lay mouldering there In the bridal wreath of that lady fair! O, sad was her fate! -in sportive jest She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. It closed with a spring! -- and, dreadful doom, The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!
THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD.
GRIEF hath been known to turn the young head gray,
To silver over in a single day
The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time Of Gallia's madness, that discrowned head Serene, that on the accursed altar bled Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! What must the sufferings of that night have been
That one that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er With time's untimely snow! But now no more, Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee-
I have to tell a humbler history;
A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth (If any), will be sad and simple truth.
Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame, So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, Father" and "Master" to himself applied, As life's grave duties matronize the bride, "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth To his day labor, from the cottage door, "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton * roar?
It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair ; And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, As threats, the waters will be out anon.
That path by the ford's a nasty bit of way, Best let the young ones bide from school to-day."
Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; Two little lasses to the father's side
* A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny.
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