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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117560" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Juan De Paresa, The Painter's Slave</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'T was sunset upon Spain. The sky of June<br>Bent o'er her airy hills, and on their tops,<br>The mountain cork-trees caught the fading light<br>Of a resplendent day. The painter threw<br>His pencil down, and with a glance of pride<br>Upon his beautiful and finish'd work,<br>Went from his rooms. And Juan stood alone—<br>Gazing upon the canvas, with his arms<br>Folded across his bosom, and his eye<br>Fill'd with deep admiration, till a shade<br>Of earnest thought stole o'er it. With a sigh,<br>He turn'd away, and leaning listlessly<br>Against the open casement, look'd abroad.<br>The cool fresh breezes of the evening came,<br>To bathe his temples with the scented breath<br>Of orange blossoms; and the caroll'd song<br>Of the light-hearted muleteer, who climb'd<br>The mountain pass—the tinkling of the bells,<br>That cheer'd his dumb companions on their way—<br>The passing vesper chime—the song of birds—<br>And the soft hum of insects—soothingly<br>Stole in with blended sweetness to his ear.<br>And then the scene! 't was of Spain's loveliest;<br>Mountain and forest, emerald pasture slopes,<br>Dark olive groves, and bowers of lemon-trees;<br>Vineyards, and tangled glens, the swift cascade,<br>Leaping from rock to rock, the calm bright stream,<br>The castle, and the peasant hut, were there,<br>All group'd in one bright landscape. Juan gazed,<br>Until the spirit of its beauty pass'd,<br>Like some fine subtle influence to his heart,<br>Filling it with rich thoughts. He had not known<br>The teachings of Philosophy, nor fed<br>The cravings of his spirit, from the page<br>Of intellectual glory; but his eye<br>Had been unseal'd by Nature, and his mind<br>Was full of nice perceptions; and a love,<br>Deep and intense, for what was beautiful,<br>Thrill'd like vitality around his heart,<br>With an ennobling influence.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He had stood<br>Beside the easel, day by day, to feed<br>The pallet of the Painter with the hues<br>That lived upon the canvas, and had watch'd<br>The fine and skilful touch, that made a thing<br>Of magic of the pencil, till he caught<br>The o'ermastering glow of spirit, and he long'd<br>So to pour out his soul, and give the forms<br>Of beauty, that were thronging it, to life.<br>Such thoughts were on him now. His fine form lean'd<br>Earnestly forward, and within his eye<br>There flash'd a tremulous glory, and his hand<br>Was press'd upon his heart, as if to quell<br>Its hopeless longings—for he was a slave!<br>The bended brow, o'er which the gathering blood<br>Rush'd burningly, as bitter tears sprang out<br>From under his closed eyelids, wore the stain<br>Of Afric's lineage:—and, alas for him!<br>His master was the haughtiest lord of all<br>Castile's proud nobles, and Paresa knew<br>That even his life would scarce suffice to pay<br>The forfeit of the daring, that should seek,<br>With the profaning fingers of a slave,<br>To grasp the meed of genius.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet his eye,<br>When he uncover'd it, was calm and bright,<br>And his curl'd lip set faintly in the strength<br>Of his fix'd purpose.<br>Day by day, he gave<br>His spirit to the glorious dreams that throng'd<br>Around it, and pursued his secret toil,<br>Feeding his mind with its own fervid thoughts,<br>Till he had won its brightest images<br>Within his grasp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length his task was done.<br>The last nice touch was given, and he laid<br>His pencil by, and scann'd it, o'er and o'er,<br>With a keen gaze, and turn'd away, and still<br>Again resumed his scrutiny severe,<br>Till satisfied at last, with trembling hand<br>He bore it to its station.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'T was the hour<br>At which the king was often wont to seek<br>The chambers of the artist, and the slave<br>Knew that the monarch had a painter's heart,<br>And critic's eye for beauty, and to him,<br>He had resolved to trust his fate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They came—<br>The monarch and the painter; and the breath<br>Rush'd quick and tremulous from Juan's lips,<br>As they pass'd slowly round, with brief remark<br>Of praise or censure, till at length the king<br>Stood forth alone, and check'd his loitering step.<br>“Turn me this canvas.” And Paresa did<br>His bidding silently, and stood aside<br>To wait his destiny of life or death.<br>Long gazed the king in silence—but his limbs<br>Lost their loose careless tension, and his eye<br>Lit gradually up, and the fine curve<br>Of his expanded nostril and curl'd lip<br>Breathed with a kindling spirit,—“Beautiful!”<br>At last he murmur'd—“Oh, how beautiful!”<br>And Juan, with a glance of conscious pride<br>He could not conquer, even while he lay<br>A suppliant at Philip's feet, confess'd<br>The guilt of having won a monarch's praise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'T was a star-lit eve—and Juan stood once more<br>Alone, but not in sadness; on his brow,<br>His free, enfranchised brow, there linger'd yet<br>The glow of triumph, soften'd in his eye,<br>By the sweet tear of gratitude. His heart<br>Was full to overflowing, and when words<br>At last broke forth, almost insensibly<br>He moulded them to song:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Look on me stars! pour down your light<br>Deep, deep, into my very soul;<br>There is no darkness there to-night,<br>No bondage with its dread control.<br>What blessedness it is to gaze<br>On all that God has made so fair,<br>And feel no blight within to raise,<br>O'er all a cloud of dull despair.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Free! free! yet I will leave thee not,<br>Thou who hast burst my galling chain!<br>To love thee, serve thee, be my lot,<br>Till death shall chill my throbbing vein.<br>The past, with all its grief and shame,<br>Shall be annull'd by memory now;<br>But not the hour when Freedom's name<br>Was written on my burning brow.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Margaret+Chandler">Elizabeth Margaret Chandler</a> from <i>Poetical Works</i><div class=q>
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