492 Tietur Amantiori. [May, 



Were blinded with weeping. My father, he gave 



His decision of Harpagon — " Oh, that my grave," 



I exclaimed in my heart, " would now yawn to receive me ! 



Nothing can evermore pleasure or grieve me 1" 



Thus I thought ; when o' th' sudden, as if to belie me. 



Aloud knocking was heard— a slave hastened by me. 



And gave in a picture ; all hurried to see. 



They tore off its covering — lo ! it was me ! 



I was breathing — was speaking ; my features, my air, 



The tears as they moistened my eye-lids, were there 1 



My soul seemed exhaling in long-drawn sighs. 



To which not sorrow, but love, gave rise ; 



The eyes and the sighing lips seem'd to tell 



What sighs and gentle tears speak so well ; 



'Twas love shone radiant in ev'ry feature; 



'Twas no art did this I 'twas the hand of Nature ! 



'Twas Nature embellish'd ; the soul had its place 



On the canvas, as though 'twere a living face; 



A soft light mingled with softer shade. 



Like the beam which breaks thro' the forest glade. 



And sheds its gold o'er the turfen lawn. 



As the sun first peeps o'er the brink of dawn 1 



My father — the artists— all stood in surprise ; 

 All gaz'd on the picture with wond'ring eyes : 

 Applauses follow'd th' admiring gaze ; 

 Harpagon, only, refused to praise. 

 But my father, at length finding words to speak 

 That pleasure for which all words were weak, 

 " Where's the mortal," he cried, " to whom 'tis given 

 (Or rather the god, for 'tis worthy heaven !) 

 Thus to add life to th' inanimate form 

 Which his pencil draws ? 'Tis living, 'tis warm ! 

 To whom is my daughter's troth-plight to be ?" 

 Eumolpus stepped forward, and said — " To me ! 

 Yet 'twas not / painted this picture — 'twas Love ! 

 'Tis his work alone I 'twas his torch from above 

 Shed its light on the painting I he deign'd to confer 

 On my heart the reflection, the image of her ! 

 And made my untutor'd hand skilful to trace, 

 From my heart, on the canvas, her exquisite face ! 

 Yes 1 surely there's nothing, save only Love's art. 

 Could suffice thus to paint her so true to the heart ! 

 Yes ! all arts are his, in his are united 

 All others in one !" As he spake, the delighted 

 Expression of happy love beamed o'er his face 1 

 He took up a lute ; and his voice seem'd to trace 

 His heart's hist'ry to me, in music so sweet. 

 That Love seem'd resolv'd all talents should meet 

 In this favour'd one's person — at ev'ry tone 

 Of the voice and the lute, you could swear " 'twas Love's own !" 



' Eumolpus thus won me ; my father dismiss'd 



The other pretenders : with fondness he kiss'd 

 My brow as h<; bless'd me — the joyous bride 

 Of him whom I'd choose from the world beside ! 

 Now, ye judges, according to whose behest 

 The prize is given " To him who loves best," 

 Say where can you find, have you ever found, one 

 Who loves like Eumolpus ? My heart declares " None !* 



