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sonage—the blind and interesting Camilla, who is introduced as having yielded to her son's importunities, and sitting to him for her picture, amid the assembled family group

The Marquis in the foreground renews with the Painter a former conversation respecting Italy, which, though without admitting it as yet to be his native country, he acknowledges having visited. He enquires about the few'remaining artists of a degenerate age, and felicitates Spinarosa on having so early in life acquired such transcendent fame. The Painter sadly replies,

Paint. Let none call happy one whose art's deep source
They know not or what thorny paths he trode
To reach its dazzling goal !

What dost thou mean?
Paint. I'll seek a simile--Some gorgeous cloud
Oft towers in wondrous majesty before yem
It bathes its bosom in pure ether's flood,
Evening twines crowns of roses for its head,
And for its mantle weaves a fringe of gold ;
Ye gaze on it admiring and enchanted
Yet know not whence its airy structure rose !
If it breathe incense from some holy altar,
Or earth. born vapours from the teeming soil,
When rain from Heav'n descends—it' fiery breath
Of battle, or the darkly rolling smoke
Of conflagration, thus its giant towers
Pile on the sky-ye care not, but enjoy
Its form and glory.--Thus it is with art!
Whether 'twere born amid the sunny depths
Of a glad heart entranced in mutual love-
Or, likelier far, alas! the sorrowing child
Of restless anguish, and baptized in tears-
Or wrung from Genius even amid the tbroes
Of worse than death-Ye gaze and ye admire,
Nor pause to ask what it hath cost the heart

1 hat gave it being ! Camilla, from whose eyes their wonted fillet had been removed while sitting to her son, (but whose face had till now been averted from all the rest of the group,) now beckons to her attendant Julia, to replace the covering, and then hastily rising, exclaims,

Cam. No more, my son ! I can no longer stem
My soul's unwonted restlessness-1'll draw
Near to my Father's side, that I may share
Thy master's converse with him.

Aye, my daughter !
Come here and listen-Fate has long denied
The privilege of hearing Genius speak.

Cam. Let me not interrupt thee-Master, tell
More of thy wondrous land, bright Italy.

Paint. Gladly, fair lady-only I could wish
It had been thine to see it.

Dost thou think
'Tis strange to me? Aye! thou art right, for I
Scarce knew what 'twas to see-or if but dreams
My past bright visions were—it matters not!
Excuse the question-ye were naming now
Italy's artists-round her hallow'd shrine
Strange votaries wont to gather. Know ye aught
Of Solimena's northern scholars?

Can I recall-War drove the foreign band
Of pupils home.


War! did it leave them homes?
Born in some cold inhospitable breast,
It stalks abroad to live on others' tears
And others' heart's blood !-Yet, is there a strife
Deadlier than war! it desolates that land,
That little realm the hand may cover thus.

(Lays her hand on her heart. Paint. If there it rage-there will ere long be peace!

Cam. Oh, my poor eyes ! O lead me to the air,
Heaven's breeze may mitigate their deadly smart.

When have I felt thus sad ? Away, away! When she is gone, the Count asks the Painter if he had said too much of his interesting guest, and if he does not feel attracted towards her by resistless sympathy. He answers, that he could scarce account for the deep emotion he had experienced on her taking his hand, and returning her maternal thanks for his care of her son. A thousand slumbering ideas had seemed to revive with her voice, and had left him absolutely speechless, which he the more regretted, as her eyes could not supply the failure of words.

Leonhard now springs up in discontent from the easel, ard declares himself too much of a novice to be able to do justice to his blind parent. The Count remarks that he has made her ten years too old. The Painter's judge ment is more favourable, though he has never yet seen Camilla without the bandage, which so materially alters her expression ; but Leonhard is aware of his own failure, and exclaims,

Leon. No! not my beauteous mother-but a wan

And faded image doch you canvass bear !
The Painter beautifully remarks:

Paint. If summer thou wouldst paint, thou must not rob
Her of her gorgeous hues, though she should wear
In her gay coronal some wither'd flowers,
Thou must not bid them fade--Else will her form
Like Autumn's show, and thou be held to fail. -
But wouldst thou seize that silent spirit's power,
That '.wixt bright Summer and grey Autumn steals,
Foretelling change-Bid the flowers gently droop
Their heads as yet unwither'd, as though bent
Alone with starry night. dews-which their stems
May rear once more in beauty-then thou’lt make

A true, yet lovely picture ! The Count expresses himself most dissatisfied with the expression of the eyes. The Painter, as if inspired, says,

Paint. Methinks I feel it—though I never saw them!

Leon. (Impatiently.) Ye all are right-but whither shall I turn
To seek more living colours? - Yet how true,
How life-like did not my last picture glow
The beautiful young Roman's? Then I mix'd
Boldly my tints, and ever as I drew
Even thou wouldst say the very canvass lived !

Paint. Aye! 'twas a masterpiece-but well I know
Genii unseen were hovering round, and gave
The hues unearthly for the kindred task!

Leon. What Genii ? Tell me?

Give them not a name !
While yet unquestion'd they with willing hand
Reach inspiration--but if once thou break
The silent spell-to combat they defy thee !

Leon. Indeed ? And wherefore do they now desert me?

Paint. A spirit doth stand near thee! Alial love!
But it would lure thee from thine easel still
Into the arms of thy long absent mother
It hath no time to mix thy colours for thee;
Yet fearless follow it and leave thy task

Unfinish'd rather than its bent oppose ! The Count and Leonhard unite in imploring Spinarosa to finish the picture. The Marquis enters, and adds his voice to the general dissatisfaction, thus,

Marq. Yes! ye are right! Its very truth is painful,
Sorrow and pain are there, and their dark dwelling
Yon brow's untimely folds. The paint+r's art,
While it but teaches him to read too well
Grief's mystic characters upon the brow,

Bids him when read-in tenderness efface them. All once more unite in imploring the artist to breathe animation into his pupil's work; the Count thus pleads,

Count. In the baronial hall of this old castle
Are all my valiant fathers' effigies,
And their proud dames assembled-one alone
Is wanting—that fair lady's—and shall it,
The fairest flower, not grace the hallow'd wreath?
O place it there!

Paint. Well! give me yonder pencils,
I'll follow my heart's dictates, and obey (He falls into a reverie.
And yet I know not what thus stirs my soul,
I feel as if invisible spirits warn'd me
To shun the easel. Give me but a moment
To man me for the task !

O take me with thee,
I cannot leave thee thus !

(Evennt together.
Marq. (To the Count.) I came in quest of thee-I find my daughter
Since morning strangely alter'd.


Her heart,
Once so resign'd and peaceful, heaves and throbs
As it would burst its prison !

'Tis but joy
To see her son return'd.

A mother's joy
Pours healing oil on passion's troubled wave.
No! 'tis long slumbering Memory wakes the pang
Of deeply buried griefs.

Oh! durst I hope!
Father! is there a hope that one fond spark
Kindles our mutual breast?

Would it were so,
My friend ! but ah ! I fear another image
From Memory's cave, like spirit from the tomb,
Hath risen to wake the heart's dead sympathies.

Count. Another ! earlier known and earlier loved !

Spare me suspense-unveil the mystery. The Marquis then narrates that he had, in consequence of the early death of his wife, confided the youth of his daughter to his sister, the abbess of a convent in Naples, hoping, by the strict seclusion of the cloister, to secure to his future son-in-law ihe undivided affections, as well as hand, of his youth. ful bride. These parental solicitudes had been frustrated by an unforeseen accident. The celebrated painter Solimena, having been employed by the puns to paint an altar-piece for their chapel, had furiher promised to their importunities to retouch a faded Madonna, said to be by a great master ; but had contented himself with devolving the task on one of his pupils, a young German artist, named Leny, by whom it was admirably performed, though, to the surprise of every one, the restored Madonna proved the very living image of the Marquis's daughter, whose affections, as well as likeness, the young painter had contrived to steal.

This unfortunate, though innocent attachment, had only been just discovered as the bridegroom arrived, and sufficiently accounted for the maiden's tearful reluctance, the cause of which the Marquis (not very characteristically we should say) did not conceal from her husband. In answer to the Count's question, if he had ever seen the young artist, the Marquis answers-Never ; that he had been indignantly driven from Naples by his noble rival, and he had never since inquired about him. The Count, to whom this carly history is a sad death-blow, has only to enquire its connexion with the present. Marq.

Believe me, Spinarosa's coming,
His vivid talk of Italy, have woke
Within her breast forgotten images.
Did ye not mark her anxiously enquire
of solimena's pupils? When I led
Her to the air, she gave her feelings way;
Like crystal fountains from their dusky grots,
Gush'd irrepressible the streaming tears
From her eyes' darksome caves.

Ye did but pluck
Her love, not root it up.

At least I tell
Ye openly what foe ye have to encounter.
A father's blessing will give victory.

Count. He who knows Love defies him not so lightly ;
I'll sound her heart myself.

What! will ye draw
Forth from dim whisper'd silence, what, while there
Hath scarce existence?

Hallow'd confidence
Shall be my only claim to more-but trust me!

I love, and Love will teach what it requires ! They are interrupted by Leonhard, who announces that his mother is about to join the family-group perfectly unaware, of course, that it is the Painter, and not her son, who is to take advantage of it to complete her picture. She thus affectingly summons Leonhard from his supposed occupation.

Cam. Art there, my son ? Leave painting for a while,
Stay by me. I too have a painter's hand
That sight supplies. Let it convey thy features
E'un to a mother's heart. My world is small !
All its horizon what mine hand can reach !
When thou o'erleap'st it, thou'rt invisible?

Leon. Yet none the farther from thy heart.

Ay! true!
But my eye loves to tell my heart of thee;
Give me thine hand.—Thou'rt delicately rear'd
Thy tender master has not let thee grasp
Life's oar too rudely-0! that cheek's warm glow,
Its favour'd clime, that knows no breath save Spring's,
Must bear youth's blended roses ! Thou wert once
Thus high. 'Twas in our parting hour I took
Thy stature's measure-jt just reach'd my heart;
Now is thine heart grown up to meet thy mother's.

May be

These agitating reminiscences make Camilla complain of heat. The Mare quis avails himself of it to advise laying aside her fillet. She complies, (unaware of the presence of the stranger artist,) and he begins his task-at first with composure—by degrees, with slight marks of surprise-at length, with all the tokens of lively and increasing emotion, which may be supposed to attend even dubious recognition of a beloved object. Camilla thus addresses her son, whom she supposes engaged at the easel :Cam. Yes, yes! I'll let thee paint me--that no blank

thine ancestral hall. But ah !
Paint me with eyes half-closed as if I durst
Not gaze upon the group.

Not dare ! and why,
When all its noble ladies bend before thee
With duteous welcome ?

Ah, but I'm blind !
Once on a time, a painter lent me eyes,
Bright, heavenly, sainted eyes !--'Twas bold and sinful,
And therefore Hearen hath closed them in its wrath.
It is not meet that lamps in judgment quench'd
An earthly pencil should again relume.

Leon. O were my lips but warm enough to kindle
Their embers with a kiss !

Treasure their warmth,
To wake within thy soul a hallow'd flame,
That withers not the heart !

Castellun. (Entering.) A messenger is come to Signor Burg
With letters fraught from Naples.

'Tis the Spring's
Glad harbinger-Quick, let us hence-Lenardo,
Come with me!

Take me with ye too,
That I may hear him speak-Me too he calls.

Marg. Nay, nay, remain—I'll lead him to thy chamber. [Exeunt. The Count, with whom and her faithful Julia, Camilla now supposes herself alone, thus sorrowfully addresses her :

Count. Is the voice dear that calls thee from my side,
And wilt thou follow it?

When winter flies-
That robs, like war, the songsters of the wood
Ot their green dwellings, and with ruthless hand
Sends them unshelter'd forth-and when soft spring,
Like Peace's silver trumpet, whispers back
The wanderers to their home-who would not hear,

And spread fond pinions ?
In answer to the mild expostulations of the Count, she continues-

Cam. Have ye not heard- I know ye have the tale
Of the poor Sibyl-who, in feverish love
of her dear country, hover'd on the brink
Of Death's dread gulf, till one in charity
Brought her a handful of Cumean earth,
And laid it on her heart?

Is't then to die
Ye wish to reach those shores ?

Nay, not to die.
To live once more I seek my native land.
If she could not depart till on her breast

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