COUNTESS LAURA.
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Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists,Deadening their splendor. In a moment, stillWas Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd;And a great shadow overwhelmed them all,As their white faces and their anxious eyesPursued 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 registerThe workings of my heart? Then hear the bell,That almost cracks its frame in utterance;The Countess—she is dead!"—"Dead!" Carlo groaned.And if a bolt from middle heaven had struckHis splendid features full upon the brow,He could not have appearcd mere scathed and blanched."Dead!—dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame,And clung around it, buffeting the airWith one wild arm, as though a drowning manHung 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-nightIn state within the chapel? Shall it beThat earth must lose her wholly? that no hintOf her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lipsThat talked in silence, and the eager soulThat ever seemed outbreaking through her clay,And scattering glory round it,—shall all theseBe dull corruption’s heritage, and we,
