Portrait d'une Dame Espagnole

The hand that drew thee lies in Roman soil,Whilst on the canvas thou hast deathless grown,Endued by him who deemed it meaner toilTo give the world a portrait save thine own.

Yet had he found thy peer, and Rome forborneSuch envy of his conquest over Time,Beauty had waked, and Art another mornHad gained, and ceased to sorrow for her prime.

What spirit was it—where the masters are—Brooding the gloom and glory that were Spain,Through centuries waited in its orb afarUntil our age Fortuny's brush should gain?

What stroke but his who pictured in their stateQueen, beggar, noble, Philip's princely brood,Could thus the boast of Seville recreate,Even when one like thee before him stood?

Like thee, own child of Spain, whose beauteous pride,Desire, disdain, all sins thy mien express,Should need no absolution—hadst thou diedUnhouselled, in their imaged loveliness.

All this had Fate decreed,—the antique skill,The halt, the poise, the long auspicious day,—Yielding this once, thy triumph to fulfil,Velasquez' sceptre to Fortuny's sway.

Shine from thy cloud of night, fair star, nor fearOblivion, though men thy dust inurn,For who may bid thy counterpart appearUntil the hand that drew thee shall return!

1889