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 overran 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 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,
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 if they let a spectre through. Then he,
Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice
Sounding remote and hollow, made reply:
"Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'Tis my fate,--
"Not pleasure,-no, nor duty." But the Count,
Astray in woe, but understood assent,

Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung
His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast,
And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank:
Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count,
A little reddening at his public state,—
Unseemly to his near and recent loss,---
Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes
That did him reverence as he rustled by.

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

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.
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 dew 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 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!
"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 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.
"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 amongst 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;