Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/133



Yet still he painted on, until his heart Grew to the picture,—it became his world,— He lived but in its beauty, made his art Sacred to it alone. No more he gave To the glad canvass green and summer dreams Of the Italian valleys; traced no more The dark eyes of its lovely daughters, looked And caught the spirit of fine poetry From glorious statues: these were pass'd away. Shade after shade, line after line, each day Gave life to the sweet likeness. dwelt In intense worship on his own creation, Till his cheek caught the hectic tinge he drew, And his thin hand grew tremulous. One night— The portrait was just finished, save a touch, A touch to give the dark light of the eyes— He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dreamt That a fair creature came and kissed his brow, And bade him follow her: he knew the look, And rose. Awakening, he found himself Kneeling before the portrait:—'twas so fair He deemed it lived, and prest his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,— Young died beside his masterpiece! L. E. L.