PICTOR IGNOTUS.

[FLORENCE, 15-.]

I COULD have painted pictures like that youth's
Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! no bar
Stayed me-ah, thought which saddens while it soothes !—
Never did fate forbid me, star by star,

To outburst on your night with all my gift

Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift

And wide to Heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around

Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan
The license and the limit, space and bound,
Allowed to Truth made visible in Man.
And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw,
Over the canvas could my hand have flung,
Each face obedient to its passion's law,

Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue;
Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood,
A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace,
Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood
Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place,
Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up,

And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,—

O Human faces, hath it spilt, my cup?

What did ye give me that I have not saved?
Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!)

Of going-I, in each new picture,—forth,
As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell,
To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South or North,
Bound for the calmly satisfied great State,

Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went,

Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight,

Through old streets named afresh from its event, Till it reached home, where learned Age should greet My face, and Youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!— Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to Heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend,— The thought grew frightful, 'twas so wildly dear! But a voice changed it! Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels thro' a door Of some strange House of Idols at its rites;

This world seemed not the world it was before! Mixed with my loving trusting ones there trooped Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Tho' I stooped

Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun,

They drew me forth, and spite of me.. enough!
These buy and sell our pictures, take and give,
Count them for garniture and household-stuff,
And where they live our pictures needs must live,

And see their faces, listen to their prate,
Partakers of their daily pettiness,

Discussed of,-" This I love, or this I hate,

"This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Wherefore I chose my portion.

If at whiles

My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint

These endless cloisters and eternal aisles

With the same series, Virgin, Babe, and Saint,
With the same cold, calm, beautiful regard,
At least no merchant traffics in my heart;
The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward

Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart;
Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine
While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke,
They moulder on the damp wall's travertine,
'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke.
So die, my pictures; surely, gently die!

Oh, youth, men praise so,-holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth ?

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.

THAT second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—
I made six days a hiding-place

Of that dry green old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above,

Bright creeping thro' the moss they love.

-How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight;

And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires; well, there I lay
Close covered o'er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles's miserable end,

And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go

To work among the maize; you know,

With us, in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart
One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground:
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest

With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath: they disappeared :
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail