Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay The Countess Laura at the altar's foot. Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows; A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers, Draped her still body almost to the chin; And over all a thousand candles flamed Against the winking jewels, or streamed down The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, Backward and forward, through the distant gloom. When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head Drooped down so low that all his shining curls Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. Upon his easel a half-finished work, The secret labor of his studio, Said from the canvas, so that none might err, "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled, And gazed upon the picture,--as if thus, Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, Emerging from his dream, and standing firm Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!" Confidingly and softly to the corpse; And as the veriest drudge who plies his art Against his fancy, he addressed himself With stolid resolution to his task. Turning his vision on his memory, And shutting out the present, till the dead, The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, And all the meaning of that solemn scene Became as nothing, and creative Art Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed The elements according to her law,-- So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked The settled purpose of Omnipotence. And it was wondrous how the red, the white, The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; How just beneath the lucid skin the blood Glimmered with warmth, the scarlet lips apart Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; How the light glittered through and underneath The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes Became intelligent with conscious thought, And somewhat troubled underneath the arch Of eyebrows but a little too intense For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot Suggested life just ceased from motion; so That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, "That creature lives,--has senses, mind, a soul To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!" The artist paused. The ratifying "Good" Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,-- "My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" The lofty flame which bore him up so long