THE DEFORMED ARTIST.
BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD.
The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had wove a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth serene and pale;
As quickly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.
No costly pomp and luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as the low winds echoed far
The bell for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.
"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of Life is spun,
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 'tis not with pale disease
This frame is worn away,
Nor yet—nor yet with length of years—
A child but yesterday"
"I found within my father's hall
No fervent love to claim—
The curse that marked me from my birth
Devoted me to shame.
I saw upon my brother's brow
Angelic beauty lay,
The mirror gave me back a form
That thrilled me with dismay."
"And soon I learned to shrink from all,
The lowly and the high;
To see but scorn on every lip,
Contempt in every eye.
And for a time e'en Nature's smile
A bitter mockery wore,
For beauty stamped each living thing
The wide creation o'er;"