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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.

47

LINES

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 my fame,

"All Christendom resoundeth the noble Blanch's

name.

"Nor shall I quickly wither like the rose-bud

from the tree,

"My queen-like graces shining when my beauty's gone from me.

"But when the sculptur'd marble is raised o'er my head,

1

"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 worshipp'd here."

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LINES

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.

LINES

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 childworship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,

With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,

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