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.
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 marveling 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.