THE PIOUS PAINTER.

PART I.

There once was a painter in Catholic days,
Like Job who eschew'd all evil;

Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze

With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise
And delight was in painting the Devil.

They were angels, compared to the Devils he drew
Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell;
Such burning hot eyes, such a furnace-like hue!
And round them a sulphurous vapour he threw
That their breath seem'd of brimstone to smell.

And now had the artist a picture begun,
'Twas over the Virgin's church door;
She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son,
Many Devils already the artist had done,
But this must out-do all before.

The Old Dragon's imps as they fled through the air,
At seeing it paused on the wing;

For he had the likeness so just to a hair,

That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,
To pay their respects to their King.

Every child at beholding it shiver'd with dread,
And scream'd as he turn'd away quick;

Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head,
Dropp'd a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,
Lord keep me from ugly Old Nick!

What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,
He sometimes would dream of by night;

But once he was startled as sleeping he lay;
"Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey
That the Devil himself was in sight.

"You rascally dauber!" old Beelzebub cries,
"Take heed how you wrong me again!
Though your caricatures for myself I despise,
Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes,
Or see if I threaten in vain!"

Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside,
And on faith he had certain reliance,

So carefully he the grim countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for sitting with Catholic pride,
And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,
He is ready as soon as 'tis light.

Every look, every line, every feature, he knows,
"Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,

And he has the old Wicked One quite.

Happy man! he is sure the resemblance can't fail;

The tip of the nose is red-hot,

There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail

Not a mark, not a claw, is forgot.

He looks and retouches again with delight; "Tis a portrait complete to his mind!

He touches again, and again gluts his sight;

He looks round for applause, and he sees with affright The original standing behind.

"Fool! idiot!" old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke,
And stamp'd on the scaffold in ire;

The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke,
'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke-
The Devil could wish it no higher.

"Help-help me! O Mary!" he cried in alarm,
As the scaffold sunk under his feet.

From the canvas the Virgin extended her arm,
She caught the good Painter, she saved him from harm,
There were hundreds who saw in the street.

The Old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied,
And cursed his own fruitless endeavour;
While the Painter call'd after his rage to deride,
Shook his palette and brushes in triumph, and cried,
"I'll paint thee more ugly than ever!"

PART II.

The Painter so pious all praise had acquired
For defying the malice of Hell;

The monks the unerring resemblance admired;
Not a lady lived near but her portrait desired
From one who succeeded so well.

One there was to be painted the number among
Of features most fair to behold;

The country around of fair Marguerite rung,
Marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young,
Her husband was ugly and old.

O Painter, avoid her! O Painter, take care!
For Satan is watchful for you!

Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare,
The net is made ready-O Painter, beware
Of Satan and Marguerite too.

She seats herself now, now she lifts up her head,
On the Artist she fixes her eyes;

The colours are ready, the canvas is spread,
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red,
And the features of beauty arise.

He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue!
There's a look which he cannot express;-
His colours are dull to their quick-sparkling hue;
More and more on the lady he fixes his view,
On the canvas he looks less and less.

In vain he retouches, her eyes sparkle more,

And that look which fair Marguerite gave! Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore, But he never had tried a live angel beforeSt. Anthony, help him and save!

He yielded, alas! for the truth must be told,
To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate.
It was settled the lady so fair to behold,
Should elope from her husband so ugly and old,
With the Painter so pious of late.

Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete,

To the husband he makes the scheme known; Night comes and the lovers impatiently meet, Together they fly, they are seized in the street, And in prison the Painter is thrown.

With Repentance, his only companion, he lies,
And a dismal companion is she!

On a sudden he saw the Old Serpent arise,
"Now, you villanous dauber!" Sir Beelzebub cries,
"You are paid for your insults to me.

"But my tender heart you may easily move
If to what I propose you agree;

That picture-be just! the resemblance improve,
Make a handsomer portrait, your chains I'll remove,
And you shall this instant be free."

Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears,
"I'll make you quite handsome!" he said.
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears;
Released from his prison, released from his fears,
The Painter is snug in his bed.

At morn he arises, composes his look,
And proceeds to his work as before;

The people beheld him, the culprit they took;
They thought that the Painter his prison had broke,
And to prison they led him once more.

They open the dungeon-behold in his place

In the corner old Beelzebub lay.

He smirks, and he smiles, and he leers with a grace, That the Painter might catch all the charms of his face, Then vanish'd in lightning away.

Quoth the Painter, "I trust you'll suspect me no more, Since my assertions were true;

you find

But I'll alter the picture above the church door,
For I never saw Satan so closely before,

And I must give the Devil his due."

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY.

The night is come, no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence;

They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths,
They sleep-alas! they sleep!

Go to the palace, wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be;

Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart at quiet there.

The monarch from the window leans,
He listens to the night,

And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.

Oh he has hell within him now!
God, always art thou just!

For innocence can never know such pangs
As pierce successful guilt.

He looks abroad, and all is still.

Hark! now the midnight bell

Sounds through the silence of the night alone—
And now the signal-gun!

Thy hand is on him, righteous God!
He hears the frantic shriek,

He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents too late.

He hears the murderer's savage shout,
He hears the groan of death;

In vain they fly-soldiers defenceless now,
Women, old men, and babes.

Righteous and just art thou, O God!
For at his dying hour

Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear,
He heard that murderous yell!

They throng'd around his midnight couch,
The phantoms of the slain!-

It prey'd like poison on his powers of life!—
Righteous art thou, O God!

Spirits! who suffer'd at that hour
For freedom and for faith,

Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,
Her faith and freedom crush'd!

And like a giant from his sleep

Ye saw when France awoke;

Ye saw the people burst their double chain,
And ye had joy in Heaven!