Me with such truth the painter's mind discerned,
While with such skilful hand the work he plied,
That when to view his finished work he turned,
With horror stricken, he grew pale, and died.
Sure I am living Death, not Death's dead shade,
That do Death's work, and am like Death obeyed.
Can you refer me to any authority for the story?
J. C. H.
Finsbury.