Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 050.djvu/349

Save th' Argus-eyed Calmari, who exchanged
A scornful greeting with me when we met.
Sal. (smiling.) No wonder that he lives in terror of you.
Rav. An accident at length procured for me
The blessed meeting I so long had courted.
One day I linger'd past my usual time
In the great hall of our academy,
Contemplating the pictures—when, behold!
Calmari's bald head stealthily protruded
In at the doorway, spying carefully
To see if any one was there. No sooner
Did he perceive me than he shouted out,
"You must begone, sir, it is past our hour
Of closing!" I departed—heard him draw
The bolts behind me—then stood still and listen'd.
I heard his creaking voice—I heard besides
The soft tones of a maiden—sweet to hear—
His ward's. My plan was speedily matured.
I bribed the porter, who at once agreed
To admit me to the hall whenever I pleased.
The difficulty next was where to hide me.
There are, you know, within the antechamber,
Two niches in the wall, in which are station'd
The waxen images of two great masters,
Attired as when they lived. One of these figures,
Old Cimabue, with the porter's aid,
I soon displaced—then wearing the costume
And beard of the dead painter, I ascended
The vacant pedestal.
Sal. I am delighted
With the adventure—pray, proceed.
Rav. In less
Than half an hour in comes our ancient friend,
And finding, as he thinks, the coast quite clear,
Goes out again, and then returns—with whom?
With whom, Salvator?—With his angel ward!
He leaves her in the room and goes his ways.
Now she and I are left alone together,
My heart beats loud—my knees grow tremulous,
And flinging off my trappings, I descend
And throw me at her feet. Full of alarm
She starts away—but love at length prevails,
And conquers shyness: I then learn from her
How every day her guardian brings her here
At the same hour, while he recieves his guests,
Anxious to keep her hid from all men's eyes.
Only conceive! the hoary miscreant
Pesters her daily with a dotard's love.
But she loves me if there is truth in heaven,
Although I dare not hope to call her mine.
Sal. You love her much, you say?
Rav. Unspeakably!
Sal. So it appears; for all absorb'd in her,
You have forgot the work which brought you here,
And the high art of painting, which in your
Eyes was the holiest of holy things.
Rav. You're in a merry humour.
Sal. Where's your work?
Rav. Not yet—not yet—this humour must be off you,
Let me arrange the light—oh, my great master!
My life or death depend on your decision,