The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Juan De Paresa, The Painter's Slave

Juan De Paresa, The Painter's Slave
'T was sunset upon Spain. The sky of June Bent o'er her airy hills, and on their tops, The mountain cork-trees caught the fading light Of a resplendent day. The painter threw His pencil down, and with a glance of pride Upon his beautiful and finish'd work, Went from his rooms. And Juan stood alone— Gazing upon the canvas, with his arms Folded across his bosom, and his eye Fill'd with deep admiration, till a shade Of earnest thought stole o'er it. With a sigh, He turn'd away, and leaning listlessly Against the open casement, look'd abroad. The cool fresh breezes of the evening came, To bathe his temples with the scented breath Of orange blossoms; and the caroll'd song Of the light-hearted muleteer, who climb'd The mountain pass—the tinkling of the bells, That cheer'd his dumb companions on their way— The passing vesper chime—the song of birds— And the soft hum of insects—soothingly Stole in with blended sweetness to his ear. And then the scene! 't was of Spain's loveliest; Mountain and forest, emerald pasture slopes, Dark olive groves, and bowers of lemon-trees; Vineyards, and tangled glens, the swift cascade, Leaping from rock to rock, the calm bright stream, The castle, and the peasant hut, were there, All group'd in one bright landscape. Juan gazed, Until the spirit of its beauty pass'd, Like some fine subtle influence to his heart, Filling it with rich thoughts. He had not known The teachings of Philosophy, nor fed The cravings of his spirit, from the page Of intellectual glory; but his eye Had been unseal'd by Nature, and his mind Was full of nice perceptions; and a love, Deep and intense, for what was beautiful, Thrill'd like vitality around his heart, With an ennobling influence.

He had stood Beside the easel, day by day, to feed The pallet of the Painter with the hues That lived upon the canvas, and had watch'd The fine and skilful touch, that made a thing Of magic of the pencil, till he caught The o'ermastering glow of spirit, and he long'd So to pour out his soul, and give the forms Of beauty, that were thronging it, to life. Such thoughts were on him now. His fine form lean'd Earnestly forward, and within his eye There flash'd a tremulous glory, and his hand Was press'd upon his heart, as if to quell Its hopeless longings—for he was a slave! The bended brow, o'er which the gathering blood Rush'd burningly, as bitter tears sprang out From under his closed eyelids, wore the stain Of Afric's lineage:—and, alas for him! His master was the haughtiest lord of all Castile's proud nobles, and Paresa knew That even his life would scarce suffice to pay The forfeit of the daring, that should seek, With the profaning fingers of a slave, To grasp the meed of genius.

Yet his eye, When he uncover'd it, was calm and bright, And his curl'd lip set faintly in the strength Of his fix'd purpose. Day by day, he gave His spirit to the glorious dreams that throng'd Around it, and pursued his secret toil, Feeding his mind with its own fervid thoughts, Till he had won its brightest images Within his grasp.

At length his task was done. The last nice touch was given, and he laid His pencil by, and scann'd it, o'er and o'er, With a keen gaze, and turn'd away, and still Again resumed his scrutiny severe, Till satisfied at last, with trembling hand He bore it to its station.

'T was the hour At which the king was often wont to seek The chambers of the artist, and the slave Knew that the monarch had a painter's heart, And critic's eye for beauty, and to him, He had resolved to trust his fate.

They came— The monarch and the painter; and the breath Rush'd quick and tremulous from Juan's lips, As they pass'd slowly round, with brief remark Of praise or censure, till at length the king Stood forth alone, and check'd his loitering step. “Turn me this canvas.” And Paresa did His bidding silently, and stood aside To wait his destiny of life or death. Long gazed the king in silence—but his limbs Lost their loose careless tension, and his eye Lit gradually up, and the fine curve Of his expanded nostril and curl'd lip Breathed with a kindling spirit,—“Beautiful!” At last he murmur'd—“Oh, how beautiful!” And Juan, with a glance of conscious pride He could not conquer, even while he lay A suppliant at Philip's feet, confess'd The guilt of having won a monarch's praise.



'T was a star-lit eve—and Juan stood once more Alone, but not in sadness; on his brow, His free, enfranchised brow, there linger'd yet The glow of triumph, soften'd in his eye, By the sweet tear of gratitude. His heart Was full to overflowing, and when words At last broke forth, almost insensibly He moulded them to song:

“Look on me stars! pour down your light Deep, deep, into my very soul; There is no darkness there to-night, No bondage with its dread control. What blessedness it is to gaze On all that God has made so fair, And feel no blight within to raise, O'er all a cloud of dull despair.

“Free! free! yet I will leave thee not, Thou who hast burst my galling chain! To love thee, serve thee, be my lot, Till death shall chill my throbbing vein. The past, with all its grief and shame, Shall be annull'd by memory now; But not the hour when Freedom's name Was written on my burning brow.”