Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 050.djvu/355

1841.] I'll not be sixty for yet many a year.

My lovely ward, how well you look to day!

You seem much pleased, sir. What is the good news?

I'm thinking what a fine surprise you'll get

To-day.

Surprise!—at what, good sir?

Oh! nothing—

Nothing, my Laura—nothing!

Sir, you know

How much I hate all mystery—speak out,

Or I shall leave you.

Well, my pretty one,

You shall behold some handiwork of mine,

And something on me.

On you!

On my head—

This head.

And what will that same something be?

A wreath.

A wreath! I'm glad 'tis nothing worse.

Come, are you not surprised?—yet there is more,

Far more, to tell you—but I must be silent.

Now, tell me plainly what may all this mean?

I ne'er before saw you in such a mood,

So festively attired.

The truth will out.

Laura! I am a painter.

You a painter!

Hush! Hush! for walls have ears. —yet if these lips

Would promise me a kiss—

I promise It.

Then hear, and be astonish'd—I have painted

One of the pictures enter'd for the prize!

(who is in a state of great anxiety on Ravienna's account.) Indeed!

What troubles you, my ward—you cast

Such anxious glances at the door?

Methinks

The people are already pouring in.

You need not fear—the doors are bolted fast.

(extremely anxious to get him away.) Pray, let us go. I hear a crowd of people

Thronging the doorway, eager for admission

To witness the decision of the prizes.

My pretty pigeon!—what!—afraid of hawks?

Nay, never fear while the old huntsman's present.

He will protect you! (He opens the door leading into his house.)

(making a sign to .) Then adieu, belov'd one!

(answering the salutation as if it had been meant for himself, and kissing her hand.)

Bless your sweet heart, my darling!

[Exit

. Belov'd one!—so she call'd me—I belov'd!

Belov'd by her!—hear it, ye images,

Ye silent witnesses of my delight—

Thou ancient Durer, and thou Cimabue—

Methinks it might have pour'd a flood of life

Through your pale forms, to hear her say she loved;

But there ye stand, cold on your pedestals,

While streams of fire are coursing through my veins.