While God is justice?" "Who has made you judge Of what you call God's good, and what you think God's evil? One to Him, the Source of both, The God of good and of permitted ill. Have you no dream of days that might have been, Had you and Laura filled another fate? Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? I tell you that this tranquil dream may be Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, And land you where the mountain goat himself Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, And all the chapel darkened, as if hell Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, As of the waters of a nether sea. Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice: "I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! Know my full meaning,--I that neither fear Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name For my deliverance from your toils. I stand Upon the founded structure of His law, Established from the first, and thence defy Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!" The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw The figure gathering, as from outer space, Brightness on brightness; and his former shape Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, And show a core of mellow fire within. Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; And o'er the tresses of his beaming head Arose a stream of many-colored light, Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up The outstretched palms of his untainted soul Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked, With reverential wonder quivering through His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what art thou?" "I am that blessing which men fly from,--Death." "Then take my hand, if so God orders it; For Laura waits me." "But bethink thee, man, What the world loses in the loss of thee! What wondrous Art will suffer with eclipse! What unwon glories are in store for thee! What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, Would shine upon the letters of thy name Graven in marble, or the brazen height Of columns wise with memories of thee!" "Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, I could but paint those features o'er and o'er; Lo! that is done." A pitying smile o'erran The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven, With deep inquiry in his tender eyes. The mandate came. He touched with downy wing The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; And gently, as the sky-lark settles down Upon the clustered treasures of her nest,