Packed with the secret of a coming storm, Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, As their white faces and their anxious eyes Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. 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 the frame in utterance: "The Countess-she is dead!"--"Dead!" Carlo groaned. And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck His splendid features full upon the brow, He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. "Dead!-dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame, And clung around it, buffeting the air With one wild arm, as though a drowning man 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 The 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, Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back, Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung 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 Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head Drooped down so low that all his shining curls Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. Upon his easel a half-finished work, 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, Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside And as the veriest drudge who plies his art And shutting out the present, till the dead, 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, Of eyebrows but a little too intense For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise Suggested life just ceased from motion; so Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" And the mere man rocked to and fro again 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 approached The noble body. "O lily of the world! 'So withered, yet so lovely! What wast thou To those who came thus near thee-for I stood "Without the pale of thy half-royal rank "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! “I painted Lila, the pale beggar's child, "At rest beneath the fountain; when I felt “Oh, heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breath "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! 'twas not your purpose-touched, and clung! 'Well, grant 'twas genius; and is genius naught? "I ween it wears as proud a diadem— "Here, in the 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. 'And I amongst them. Martyr, holy saint,— "I see the halo curving round your head,— "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; |