himself a little sonnet, with words and music of his own making. It ran thus:—
“Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses,—Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother’s doves, and teams of sparrows,
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin,—
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?”
As his song ended, the painter stood with rapt eyes gazing on the picture.
“O Goddess of Beauty, and mother of Love,” he murmured, “on whose shrine hitherto I have laid the best works my hand has wrought, grant me that boon which thou gavest before to Pygmalion. As thou transformed his marble into flesh inspired by soul, so turn my picture into the living and breathing woman. Or if Alexander will have my canvas, let him yield me Campaspe in its stead. For no less a price will I ever part with it. Ah, Campaspe! beautiful Campaspe! would that thou knewest how dear thou hast become to me! So dear that to part with thy picture were worse than death, unless I would have thyself in exchange.”
