COUNTESS LAURA.
191
A form, half shadow and half substance, stand,Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earthIt had no footing, more than some dense mistThat wavers o'er the surface of the groundIt scarcely touches, With a reverent look,The shadow's waste and wretched face was beniAbove the picture; as though greater aweSubdued its awful being, and appalled,With memories of terrible delightAnd fearful wonder, its devouring gaze."You make what God makes,—beauty," said the shape."And might not this, this second Eve, consoleThe emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlastThe fairest creature fashioned in the flesh?Before that figure, Time, and Death himself,Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you askMore than God's power, from nothing to create?"The artist gazed upon the boding form,And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart,That were an idle question, What to meIs my creative power, bereft of love?Or what to God would be that selfsame power,If so bereaved?"—"And yet the love, thus mourned,You calmly forfeited. For had you saidTo living Laura—in her burning ears—One half that you professed to Laura dead,She would have been your own. These contrariesSort not with my intelligence. But speak,Were Laura living, would the same stale playOf raging passion, tearing out its heartUpon the rock of duty, be performed?"
