And now had the Artist a picture begur,

'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 thro' the air

At seeing it pausid 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 shivered with dread

And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. Not an old Woman saw it, but raising her head, Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,

God 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.

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You rascally dauber! old Beelzebub crics,

Take heed how you wrong me again !
Tho' your caricatures for myself I despise,
Make me handsomer now in the multitudes eyes,

Or see if I threaten in vain !

Now the Painter was bold and religious beside,

And on faith he had certain reliancé.
So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for sitting, with Catholie 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 compleat to his mind! He touches again, and again feeds 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 stampt 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 conld wish it po higber.

Help-help me! O Mary! he cried in alarm

As the scaffold sunk under his feet. From the canvas the Virgin extended her mani, 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 pallet and brushes in triumph and cried,

I'll paint thee more ugly than ever !

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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.

you !

O Painter avoid her ! O Painter take care !

For Satan is watchful for
Take heed lest


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 that 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 that fair Marguerite gave! Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore But he never attempted an Angel before

St. 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 !

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