The old dragon’s imps as they fled
through the air,
At seeing it paused
on the wing,
For he had a likeness so just to a hair,
That they came as Apollyon himself had
been there,
To pay their respects
to their king.
Every child on beholding it, shivered
with dread,
And screamed,
as he turned away quick;
Not an old woman saw it, but raising her
head,
Dropp’d a bead, made a cross on
her wrinkles, and said,
“God help
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 started 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 earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thanked him for sitting with Catholic
pride,
And sturdily bid
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,
’Twas fresh to his eye, to his labor
he goes,
And he has the
wicked old one quite.
Happy man, he is sure the resemblance
can’t fail,
The tip of his
nose is red hot,
There’s his grin and his fangs,
his skin cover’d with scales
And that—the identical curl
of the 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 feeds his
sight,
He looks around for applause, and he sees
with affright,
The original standing
behind.
“Fool! idiot!” old Beelzebub
grinned 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;
And the devil
could wish it no higher.
“Help! help me, O Mary,” he
cried in alarm,
As the scaffold
sank under his feet,
From the canvas the Virgin extended her
arm,
She caught the good painter, she saved
him from harm,
There were thousands
who saw in the street.
The old dragon fled when the wonder he
spied,
And curs’d
his own fruitless endeavor:
While the Painter called after, his rage
to deride,
Shook his palette and brushes in triumph,
and cried,
“Now I’ll
paint thee more ugly than ever!”