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COUNTESS LAURA.
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 bloodGlimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apartBloomed with the moisture of the dews of life;How the light glittered through and underneathThe golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyesBecame intelligent with conscious thought,And somewhat troubled underneath the archOf eyebrows but a little too intenseFor perfect beauty; how the pose and poiseOf the lithe figure on its tiny footSuggested life just ceased from motion; soThat any one might cry, in marveling joy,"That creature lives,—has senses, mind, a soulTo win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!"The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!"Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touchTo give or soften, "It is done," he cried,—"My task, my duty! Nothing now on earthCan taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!"The lofty fame, which bore him up so long,Diced in the ashes of humanity;And the mere man rocked to and fro againUpon the centre of his wavering heart.He put aside his palette, as if thusHe stepped from sacred vestments, and assumedA mortal function in the common world."Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approachedThe noble body. "O lily of the world!So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou
