No. XXVII. THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE ROBERT SOUTHEY. PART I THERE once was a Painter in Catholic days, Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze They were angels, compared to the devils he drew, Who befieged poor St. Anthony's cell; Such burning hot eyes, fuch a damnable hue, You could even smell brimftone, their breath was fo blue, He painted his devils fo well. And now had the Artist a picture begun, The old Dragon's imps, as they fled through the air, For he had the likeness so just to a hair, That they came as Apollyon himself had been there, Every child, at beholding it, fhiver'd with dread, What the Painter fo earneftly thought on by day, But once he was startled, as fleeping he lay, -"You rafcally dauber," old Beelzebub cries, Now the painter was bold, and religious befide, So earnestly he all his countenance eyed, Betimes Betimes in the morning the Painter arofe, Every look, every line, every feature he knows, Happy man, he is fure the refeniblance can't fail, The tip of the nose is red hot, There's his grin and his fangs, his íkin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail, Not a mark, not a claw is forgot. He looks, and retouches again with delight; 'Tis a portrait complete to his mind! He touches again, and again feeds his fight, He looks round for applaufe, and he fees, with affright, "Fool! idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke, The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke, "Help! help me! O Mary!" he cried in alarm, As the fcaffold funk under his feet. From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm, She caught the good Painter, fhe faved him from harm, The old Dragon fled when the wonder he 'fpied, While the Painter call'd after, his rage to deride, PART II. The Painter fo pious all praise had acquired, The Monks the unerring resemblance admired, One there was to be painted, the number among, The country around of fair Marguerite rung; Oh! Painter, avoid her! Oh! Painter, take care! Take heed, left you fall in the wicked one's fnare, She She feats herself now, now fhe lifts up her head, The colours are ready, the canvas is spread, He is come to her eyes, eyes fo bright and fo blue, His colours are dull to their quick-fparkling hue, In vain he retouches, her eye fparkles more, He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told, Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete, With |