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XVIII. THE PICTURE.

The shades of night around thy portrait, Dear!
Are gather'd, till thy semblance waneth dim;
And what awhile ago like thee was clear,
Shews indistinct in feature and in limb:
And such hereafter will the shadows be
On thy sweet image in my memory.
Taper and fire, with artificial light,
Give back thy painted likeness to the sight;
And fancy in far years to come may shed
Brightness on recollection, and again
Stamp thee upon my soul. Ah! darkness fled,
Another morn will on thy picture rain;
But know I not what sun can e'er restore
That morning of my heart which passeth o'er.