Whose guiding star has left its native sky,
The painter drifted on with heedless sail!
. . . . . .
The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall!
And near the window ledge, with pallid brow,
He lay like one whose very pulse had gone.
With tips of gold the princely spires and domes
Of Florence gleamed, and on her throne she sat
A queen in pride—queen of the Tuscan land!
The morning grew apace, and fleecy clouds,