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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 dream'd 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 press'd his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,— Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!