'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share
With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.
The pupils came and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,
It almost seemed that there were given
To glow before his dazzled sight,
Tints and expression warm from heaven.
'Twas but a sketch--the Virgin's head--
Yet was unearthly beauty shed
Upon the mildly beaming face;
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair,
Had separate, yet blended grace--
A poet's brightest dream was there!!
Murillo entered, and amazed,
On the mysterious painting gazed;
"Whose work is this?--speak, tell me!--he
Who to his aid such power can call,"
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly,
"Will yet be master of us all;
Would I had done it!--Ferdinand!
Isturitz! Mendez!--say, whose hand
Among ye all?"--With half-breathed sigh,
Each pupil answered,--"'Twas not I!"
"How came it then?" impatiently
Murillo cried; "but we shall see,
Ere long into this mystery.
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