Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 050.djvu/349

1841.] Save th' Argus-eyed Calmari, who exchanged

A scornful greeting with me when we met.

(smiling.) No wonder that he lives in terror of you.

An accident at length procured for me

The blessed meeting I so long had courted.

One day I linger'd past my usual time

In the great hall of our academy,

Contemplating the pictures—when, behold!

Calmari's bald head stealthily protruded

In at the doorway, spying carefully

To see if any one was there. No sooner

Did he perceive me than he shouted out,

"You must begone, sir, it is past our hour

Of closing!" I departed—heard him draw

The bolts behind me—then stood still and listen'd.

I heard his creaking voice—I heard besides

The soft tones of a maiden—sweet to hear—

His ward's. My plan was speedily matured.

I bribed the porter, who at once agreed

To admit me to the hall whenever I pleased.

The difficulty next was where to hide me.

There are, you know, within the antechamber,

Two niches in the wall, in which are station'd

The waxen images of two great masters,

Attired as when they lived. One of these figures,

Old Cimabue, with the porter's aid,

I soon displaced—then wearing the costume

And beard of the dead painter, I ascended

The vacant pedestal.

. I am delighted

With the adventure—pray, proceed.

. In less

Than half an hour in comes our ancient friend,

And finding, as he thinks, the coast quite clear,

Goes out again, and then returns—with whom?

With whom, Salvator?—With his angel ward!

He leaves her in the room and goes his ways.

Now she and I are left alone together,

My heart beats loud—my knees grow tremulous,

And flinging off my trappings, I descend

And throw me at her feet. Full of alarm

She starts away—but love at length prevails,

And conquers shyness: I then learn from her

How every day her guardian brings her here

At the same hour, while he recieves his guests,

Anxious to keep her hid from all men's eyes.

Only conceive! the hoary miscreant

Pesters her daily with a dotard's love.

But she loves me if there is truth in heaven,

Although I dare not hope to call her mine.

. You love her much, you say?

Unspeakably!

So it appears; for all absorb'd in her,

You have forgot the work which brought you here,

And the high art of painting, which in your

Eyes was the holiest of holy things.

You're in a merry humour.

Where's your work?

Not yet—not yet—this humour must be off you,

Let me arrange the light—oh, my great master!

My life or death depend on your decision,