ered;
Abraham offering Isaac--no visible Isaac, and only
Abraham's lifted knife held back by the hovering angel;
Martyrdom of Saint Stephen--a part of the figure of Stephen;
And the Conversion of Paul--the greaves on the leg of a soldier
Held across the back of a prostrate horse by the stirrup;
But when I looked at the face of that tearful and beauteous
figure,--
Eve in the fresco there, and, in Venice of old, Violante,
As I must fain believe (the lovely daughter of Palma,
Who was her father's Saint Barbara, and was the Bella of Titian),--
Such a meaning and life shone forth from its animate presence
As could restore those vague and ineffectual pictures,
With their pristine colors, and fill them with light and with
movement.
Nay, sometimes it could blind me to all the present about me,
Till I beheld no more the sausage-legged Austrian soldiers,
Where they stood on guard beside one door of the Convent,
Nor the sentinel beggars that watched the approach to the other;
Neither the bigolanti, the broad-backed Friulan maidens,
Drawing the water with clatter and splashing, and laughter and
gossip,
Out of the carven well in the midst of the court of the Convent--
No, not even the one with the mole on her cheek and the sidelong
Look, as she ambled forth with her buckets of bronze at her
shoulder,
Swinging upon the yoke to and fro, a-drip and a-glimmer.
All in an instant was changed, and once more the cloister was
peopled
By the serene monks of old, and against walls of the cloisters,
High on his scaffolding raised, Pordenone[5] wrought at his
frescos.
Armed with dagger and sword, as the legend tells, against Titian,
Who was his rival in art and in love.

IV.

It seemed to be summer,
In the forenoon of the day; and the master's diligent pencil
Laid its last light touches on Eve driven forth out of Eden,
Otherwise Violante, and while his pupils about him
Wrought and chattered, in silence ran the thought of the painter:
"She, and forever she! Is it come to be my perdition?
Shall I, then, never more make the face of a beautiful woman
But it must take her divine, accursed beauty upon it,
And, when I finish my work, stand forth her visible presence?
Ah! I could take this sword and strike it into her bosom!
Though I believe my own heart's blood would stream from the
painting,