Count Julio.
155
And it returned no more. The Roman dames
Took not her name upon their scornful lips.
Her form became a model for the artist,
And her rare face went down to future ages
Limned on his canvass. Ye may mark it yet
In the long galleries of the Vatican,
Varied, yet still the same. Now robed in pride,
As monarchs in their garb of Tyrian purple;
Now with a Magdalen's blue mantle drawn
Over the bending forehead. As the marble
Sleeps in unsullied whiteness on the tomb,
Taking no taint from the foul thing it covers,
Her beauty bore no blight from guilt, but lived
A monument that made her name immortal.
Took not her name upon their scornful lips.
Her form became a model for the artist,
And her rare face went down to future ages
Limned on his canvass. Ye may mark it yet
In the long galleries of the Vatican,
Varied, yet still the same. Now robed in pride,
As monarchs in their garb of Tyrian purple;
Now with a Magdalen's blue mantle drawn
Over the bending forehead. As the marble
Sleeps in unsullied whiteness on the tomb,
Taking no taint from the foul thing it covers,
Her beauty bore no blight from guilt, but lived
A monument that made her name immortal.
Night had uprisen, clothed with storms and gloom.
No taper lit the solitary hall,
But to and fro with feeble steps its lord
Paced through the darkness. Midnight came, and then
Pausing beside the groaning door that weighed
Its rusty hinge. Count Julio, crouching, peered
Into the gloom without; for stealthy feet
No taper lit the solitary hall,
But to and fro with feeble steps its lord
Paced through the darkness. Midnight came, and then
Pausing beside the groaning door that weighed
Its rusty hinge. Count Julio, crouching, peered
Into the gloom without; for stealthy feet
