'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save,
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,
One bright eyed boy was there--Murillo's little slave.
Almost a child--that boy had seen
Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lotty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet
Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.
"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said
"The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures--if I do,
Perhaps e'en more--the dungeon-cell!"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came--for soon in slumber laid,
He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.
"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now
Three hours of freedom I may gain,
Before my master comes, for then
I shall be but a slave again.
Three blessed hours of freedom! how
Shall I employ them?--ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be--yes, it must be effaced."
He seized a brush--the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,
He cried, "Shall I efface it?--No!
That breathing lip! that beaming eye
Efface them?--I would rather die!"
The terror of the humble slave
Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372