COUNTESS LAURA.
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Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns,Backward and forward, through the distant gloom.When Carlo entered, his unsteady feetScarce bore him to the altar, and his headDrooped down so low that all his shining curlsPoured 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,"'T 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 comesForth from the waves, he shook his Jocks aside,Emerging from his dream, and standing firmUpon a purpose with his sovereign will.He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!"Confidingly and softly lo the corpse;And as the veriest drudge, who plies his artAgainst his fancy, he addressed himselfWith 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 sceneBecame as nothing, and creative ArtResolved the whole to chaos, and reformedThe elements according to her law:So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and handWere Heaven's unconscious instruments, and workedThe settled purpose of Omnipotence.
