 | Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell |  |
THREE SCENES IN THE LIFE OF A PORTRAIT
Scene I: 1879
I
Your portrait? Charming! And for me!And such a capital resemblance!
'T will serve when you're beyond the sea—
Crayon? Ah, no; lithography—
To keep you freshly in remembrance.
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II
Where shall we hang it? Juan, my dear,Make yourself useful this once, pray do!
Yes, there 's some empty wall-space here;
But, then, 't would hardly do so near
That dark oil-picture of Quevedo.
III
No hurry, say you? We can wait?We've got the rest of life before us?
Poor women! It is still our fate
To hear such wisdom. How I hate
That universal husband's chorus!
IV
Myself I'll hang it where I reignLike our old kings sans Constitution:
In my boudoir. Since here in Spain
Men talked of rights, the only gain
Has been high taxes and confusion.
Scene II: 1889
I
Juan, I must need contrive some spaceTo hang this bit of old repoussé;
One's gatherings grow at such a pace!
Ah, to be sure, there's just the place—
Why not have said so sooner, goosie?
II
That portrait of poor What'shisname—What was his name? Well, I can spare it;
It really has no sense of shame,
To stare so! It can do the same,
Without offending, in the garret.
III
One's memory plays such tricks perverse!But I recall his story now well;
He used to bore me with his verse
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A Yankee, and his name was Powell.
IV
What tiresome notes he used to writeTo his Querida Doña Emilia!
Some in such Spanish! My delight
Was in the blunders. Well, good night;
A bore should like the Boardilla.
Scene III: 1899
I
Ten years; and I, an aimless ghost,Dim as Assisi's vanished frescos,
Glide where shrill minstrels deafen most
And blessed prenderos keep their post,
Along the Calle de Tudescos.
II
The same old reckless odds and ends,Pistols, coins, lace, unholy clutter!
Life's castaways that have no friends,
Dead lovers' gifts—who knows? So ends
A poet sometimes in the gutter!
III
And there, beside the selfsame door(How many years they must have kept him, oh!),
With the same seasick look he wore,
But faded out a trifle more,
Hangs my old friend Fernando Septimo.
IV
I—but what portrait's that below?Oh, Doña Emil—wast thou, too, shoddy?
Yes, 't is the face I used to know
Seen in a mirror long ago,
When this poor shadow had a body.
| Uncollected Poems of James Russell Lowell | |