XVIII.

_BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST._

_Al cor di zolfo._

A heart of flaming sulphur, flesh of tow, Bones of dry wood, a soul without a guide To curb the fiery will, the ruffling pride Of fierce desires that from the passions flow; A sightless mind that weak and lame doth go Mid snares and pitfalls scattered far and wide;-- What wonder if the first chance brand applied To fuel massed like this should make it glow? Add beauteous art, which, brought with us from heaven, Will conquer nature;--so divine a power Belongs to him who strives with every nerve. If I was made for art, from childhood given A prey for burning beauty to devour, I blame the mistress I was born to serve.