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COUNTESS LAURA.
Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy,"O blessed soul! with nothing to confess,Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes—So humble is she—for our human sins!"Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed,Day after day; as might a shipwrecked barkThat rocks upon one billow, and can makeNo onward motion towards her port of hope.At length, one morn, when those around her said,"Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a lightBeams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"—One morn in spring, when every flower of earthWas opening up to the sun, and breathing upIts votive incense, her impatient soulOpened 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 heartBefore the menial; tears, ah me! such tearsAs love sheds only, and love only once.Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die,And leave behind no shadow? not a traceOf 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 lightOf his transcendent genius. Through the groupsOf gayly-vestured artists moved the Count;As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue.Packed with the secret of a coming storm,
