THE DEFORMED ARTIST.

The twilight o'er Italia's sky

Had spread a shadowy veil,

And one by one the solemn stars

Looked forth, serene and pale;

As quietly the waning light

Through a high casement stole,

And fell on one with silver hair,

Who shrived a passing soul.

No costly pomp or luxury

Relieved that chamber's gloom,

But glowing forms, by limner's art

Created, thronged the room:

And as the low winds carried far

The chime for evening prayer,

The dying painter's earnest tones

Fell on the languid air.

“The spectral form of Death is nigh,

The thread of life is spun:

Ave Maria! I have looked

Upon my latest sun.

And yet‘ t is not with pale disease

This frame is worn away;

Nor yet — nor yet with length of years;—

A child but yesterday,”

“I found within my father's hall

No fervent love to claim,

The curse that marked me at my birth

Devoted me to shame.

I saw that on my brother's brow

Angelic beauty lay;

The mirror gave me back a form

That thrilled me with dismay.”

“And soon I learned to shrink from all,

The lowly and the high;

To see but scorn on every lip,

Contempt in every eye.

And for a time e'en Nature's smile

A bitter mockery wore,

For beauty stamped each living thing

The wide creation o'er,”

“And I alone was cursed and loathed:

‘ T was in a garden bower

I mused one eve, and scalding tears

Fell fast on many a flower;

And when I rose, I marked, with awe

And agonizing grief,

A frail mimosa at my feet

Fold close each fragile leaf.”

“Alas! how dark my lot, if thus

A plant could shrink from me!

But when I looked again, I saw

That from the honey-bee,

The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing.

It shrank with pain or fear:

A kindred presence I had found,—

Life waxed sublimely clear.”

“I climbed the lofty mountain height,

And communed with the skies,

And felt within my grateful heart

New aspirations rise.

Then, thirsting for a higher lore,

I left my childhood's home,

And stayed not till I gazed upon

The hills of fallen Rome.”

“I stood amid the glorious forms

Immortal and divine,

The painter's wand had summoned from

The dim Ideal's shrine;

And felt within my fevered soul

Ambition's wasting fire,

And seized the pencil, with a vague

And passionate desire”

“To shadow forth, with lineaments

Of earth, the phantom throng

That swept before my sight in thought,

And lived in storied song.

Vain, vain the dream;— as well might I

Aspire to light a star,

Or pile the gorgeous sunset-clouds

That glitter from afar.”

“The threads of life have worn away;

Discordantly they thrill;

And soon the sounding chords will be

For ever mute and still.

And in the spirit-land that lies

Beyond, so calm and gray,

I shall aspire with truer aim:—

Ave Maria! pray!”