ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY BY TITIAN] XXXV Who art thou, fair one, who usurp’st the place Of Blanche, the lady of the matchless grace? Come, fair and pretty, tell to me Who, in thy life-time, thou might’st be. Thou pretty art and fair, But with the lady Blanche thou never must compare. No need for Blanche her history to tell; Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago. [Illustration: LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS] XXXVI While young John runs to greet The greater Infant’s feet, The mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration; Nor knows as yet the full event Of those so low beginnings, From whence we date our winnings, But wonders at the intent Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. But at her side An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition, A glory, an amenity, Passing the dark condition Of blind humanity, As if he surely knew All the blest wonders should ensue, Or he had lately left the upper sphere, And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there. [Illustration: ON THE SAME] XXXVII Maternal lady with the virgin grace, Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, And thou a virgin pure. Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face Men look upon, they wish to be A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. [Illustration: A VISION OF REPENTANCE] XXXVIII I saw a famous fountain, in my dream, Where shady pathways to a valley led; A weeping willow lay upon that stream, And all around the fountain brink were spread Wide branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad, Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad. The place was such, that whoso enter’d in, Disrobéd was of every earthly thought, And straight became as one that knew not sin, Or to the world’s first innocence was brought; Enseem’d it now, he stood on holy ground, In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around. A most strange calm stole o’er my soothéd sprite; Long time I stood, and longer had I stay’d, When, lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight Which came in silence o’er that silent shade, Where, near the fountain, something like despair Made of that weeping willow, garlands for her hair.