Page:Stories from Old English Poetry-1899.djvu/124

102 himself a little sonnet, with words and music of his own making. It ran thus:

As his song ended, the painter stood with rapt eyes gazing on the picture.

“O Goddess of Beauty, and mother of Love,” he murmured, “on whose shrine hitherto I have laid the best works my hand has wrought, grant me that boon which thou gavest before to Pygmalion. As thou transformed his marble into flesh inspired by soul, so turn my picture into the living and breathing woman. Or if Alexander will have my canvas, let him yield me Campaspe in its stead. For no less a price will I ever part with it. Ah, Campaspe! beautiful Campaspe! would that thou knewest how dear thou hast become to me! So dear that to part with thy picture were worse than death, unless I would have thyself in exchange.”