COUNTESS LAURA.
189
To those who came thus near thee—for I stoodWithout the pale of thy half-royal rank—When thon wast budding, and the streams of lifeMade eager struggles to maintain thy bloom,And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dewsOn 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 sightMay be adjusted; and hereafter IMay urge a claim that all the powers of heavenShall 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 strifeIt fought with duty in your ravaged heart.I knew it ever since that summer-dayI painted Lila, the pale beggar's child,At rest beside the fountain; when I felt—Oh, heaven!—the warmth and moisture of your breathBlow 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 this very world—as that you wear.A king has held my palette, a grand-dukeHas picked my brush up, and a pope has begged
