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When painters would by art express Beauty in unloveliness, Thee, Herodias' daughter, thee, They fittest subject take to be. They give thy form and features grace ; But ever in thy beauteous face They shew a steadfast cruel gaze, An eye unpitying; and amaze In all beholders deep they mark, That thou betrayest not one spark Of feeling for the ruthless deed, That did thy praiseful dance succeed. For on the head they make you look, As if a sullen joy you took, A cruel triumph, wicked pride, That for your sport a saint had died.

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SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF TWO FEMALES

BY LIONARDO DA VINCI.

The lady Blanch, regardless of all her lovers'

fears, To the Urs’line convent hastens, and long the

Abbess hears. “ O Blanch, my child, repent ye of the courtly

life ye lead." Blanch looked on a rose-bud and little seem'd

to heed. She looked on the rose-bud, she looked round,

and thought On all her heart had whisper'd, and all the Nun

had taught. “ I am worshipped by lovers, and brightly shines Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud

my fame,

“ All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's

name.

from the tree, “ My queen-like graces shining when my beau

ty's gone from me. “ But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er

my head,

6. And the matchless Blanch lies lifeless among

the noble dead, This saintly lady Abbess hath made me justly

fear, " It nothing will avail me that I were wor

shipp'd here."

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ON THE SAME PICTURE BEING REMOVED TO

MAKE PLACE FOR A PORTRAIT OF A LADY

BY TITIAN.

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp’st the place
Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace ?
Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
Who, in thy life-time, thou might'st be.
Thou pretty art and fair,
But with the lady Blanch thou never must

compare.
No need for Blanch her history to tell ;
Whoever saw her face, they there did read it

well. But when I look on thee, I only know There lived a pretty maid some hundred years

ago.

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ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE BY LIONARDO

DA VINCI, CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE

ROCKS.

WHILE young John runs to greet
The greater Infant's feet,
The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
Of devout admiration,
Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty

adoration;
Nor knows as yet the full event
Of those so low beginnings,
From whence we date our winnings,
But wonders at the intent
Of those new rites, and what that strange child-

worship meant.
But at her side
An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,

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