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No. XXVII.

THE PAINTER OF FLORENCE

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

PART I

THERE once was a Painter in Catholic days,
Like Job, who eschewed all evil;

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze
With applause and amazement, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the Devil.

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,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door;
She stood on the dragon embracing her son:
Many devils already the Artist had done,
But this muft outdo all before.

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The old Dragon's imps, as they fled through the air,
At seeing it, paused on the wing,

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,

That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their king,

Every child, at beholding it, fhiver'd with dread,
And scream'd, as he turned away quick;
Not an old woman faw it, but, raising her head,
Dropp'd a bead, made a crofs on her wrinkles, and said,
-"God help me from ugly Old Nick !”—

What the Painter fo earneftly thought on by day,
He fometimes would dream of by night;

But once he was startled, as fleeping he lay,
'Twas no fancy, no dream-he could plainly furvey
That the Devil himself was in fight,

-"You rafcally dauber," old Beelzebub cries,
"Take heed how you wrong me again!
Though your caricatures for myself I despise,
"Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes,
"Or fee if I threaten in vain !-

Now the painter was bold, and religious befide,
And on faith he had certain reliance;

So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for fitting, with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance..

Betimes

Betimes in the morning the Painter arofe,
He is ready as foon as 'tis light;

Every look, every line, every feature he knows,
'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,
And he has the old wicked one quite.

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,
The original standing behind,

"Fool! idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke,
And ftamp'd on the feaffold in ire;

The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke,
'Twas a terrible height, and the fcaffolding broke;
The Devil could with it no higher.

"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,
There were thousands who faw in the street.

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The old Dragon fled when the wonder he 'fpied,
And curfed his own fruitlefs endeavour;

While the Painter call'd after, his rage to deride,
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph, and cried,
-"Now I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!"-

PART II.

The Painter fo pious all praise had acquired,
For defying the malice of hell:

The Monks the unerring resemblance admired,
Not a lady lived near but her portrait defired
From one who fucceeded fo well.

One there was to be painted, the number among,
Of features most fair to behold,

The country around of fair Marguerite rung;
Marguerite the was lovely, and lively, and young,
Her husband was ugly and old,

Oh! Painter, avoid her! Oh! Painter, take care!
For Satan is watchful for you!

Take heed, left you fall in the wicked one's fnare,
The net is made ready-Oh! Painter, beware
Of Satan and Marguerite too!

She

She feats herself now, now fhe lifts up her head,
On the Artist she fixes her eyes;

The colours are ready, the canvas is spread,
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red,
And the features of beauty arise.

He is come to her eyes, eyes fo bright and fo blue,
There's a look that he cannot express,

His colours are dull to their quick-fparkling hue,
More and more on the lady he fixes his view,
On the canvas he looks lefs and lefs.

In vain he retouches, her eye fparkles more,
And that look that fair Marguerite gave;
Many devils the Artist had painted of yore,
But he never attempted an Angel before,
St. Anthony help him, and fave!

He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told,
To the woman, the tempter, and fate;
It was fettled, the Lady fo fair to behold,
Should elope from her husband, fo ugly and old,
With the Painter fo pious of late.

Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete,
To the hufband he makes his fcheme known;
Night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet,
Together they fly, they are feized in the street,
And in prifon the Painter is thrown.

With

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