He touched the brow--the lip--it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed--
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat
Of punishment still hanging o'er him;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.
At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed--could aught more beauteous be'
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started--horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all
Were there e'en at his side!
The terror-stricken slave was mute--
Mercy would be denied,
E'en could he ask it--so he deemed,
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.
Speechless, bewildered--for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke--
"Who is your master, boy?"
"You, Senor," said the trembling slave.
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,
Before that Virgin's head you drew?"
Again he answered, "Only you.
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