 | Poems |  |
MY PICTURE GALLERY.
Yes, I am fond of pictures; how I love to wander through,
With delight,
A gallery such as this is! 'Tis a pleasure ever new
To my sight;
Yet, though I've not a masterpiece that pencil ever drew,
My heart has its own gallery, with pictures not a few;
Yes, friend, I have my paintings rare, and, trust me, sweet ones, too,
Seen aright.
With delight,
A gallery such as this is! 'Tis a pleasure ever new
To my sight;
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My heart has its own gallery, with pictures not a few;
Yes, friend, I have my paintings rare, and, trust me, sweet ones, too,
Seen aright.
There, landscapes I can look on, fine as Turner's to my eyes.
What a joy
For me within the glory of their golden radiance lies!
From annoy,
From care I turn, with rapture still, to see their mountains rise,
To gaze upon their rivers, and entrance me with their skies,
More radiant than the sunniest Cuyps, the Claudes that most you prize
And enjoy.
What a joy
For me within the glory of their golden radiance lies!
From annoy,
From care I turn, with rapture still, to see their mountains rise,
To gaze upon their rivers, and entrance me with their skies,
More radiant than the sunniest Cuyps, the Claudes that most you prize
And enjoy.
Ah, in my silent gallery, priceless portraits too are hung
I adore,
As fine as those that Titian's mighty hand has ever flung
Glory o'er.
There are my Vandycks and Reynoldses, I love to stroll among,
More than through those whose praise and fame around the world are rung—
These, than Rembrandts or your Raphaels rare, so praised by every tongue,
I love more.
I adore,
As fine as those that Titian's mighty hand has ever flung
Glory o'er.
There are my Vandycks and Reynoldses, I love to stroll among,
More than through those whose praise and fame around the world are rung—
These, than Rembrandts or your Raphaels rare, so praised by every tongue,
I love more.
O, Memory, mighty painter! these I prize are from your hand.
How they start
To colour, life, and motion, at the waving of your wand!
When apart
From men, and talk, and bustle, I before them, musing, stand,
How precious forms and faces, and dear scenes of sea and land,
Than ever colours imaged yet, more tender, sweet, and
Charm my heart.
How they start
To colour, life, and motion, at the waving of your wand!
When apart
From men, and talk, and bustle, I before them, musing, stand,
How precious forms and faces, and dear scenes of sea and land,
Than ever colours imaged yet, more tender, sweet, and
Charm my heart.
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There are dim-remembered places that once felt my infant feet
Long ago;
There are woods and playgrounds nearer, bedroom, parlour, school, and street
That I know;
Field and lane, and sand and seashore, trodden by my boyish feet,
Or later, firmer steps, that make my heart with pleasure beat;
Old labours and old troubles, ah! old sorrows now seem sweet,
That they show.
Long ago;
There are woods and playgrounds nearer, bedroom, parlour, school, and street
That I know;
Field and lane, and sand and seashore, trodden by my boyish feet,
Or later, firmer steps, that make my heart with pleasure beat;
Old labours and old troubles, ah! old sorrows now seem sweet,
That they show.
There the faces that I look on, and the forms that there I see,
Dim or clear,
How tender, soft, and dream-like seems their beauty there to me,
And how dear!
Sister—brothers—father—mother, as they are and used to be
To my baby sight—my boy's eyes, seen in sorrow, thought, and glee,
Those dead to us in distance—those in eternity—
They are here.
Dim or clear,
How tender, soft, and dream-like seems their beauty there to me,
And how dear!
Sister—brothers—father—mother, as they are and used to be
To my baby sight—my boy's eyes, seen in sorrow, thought, and glee,
Those dead to us in distance—those in eternity—
They are here.
With old smiles they're ever smiling, with old sorrows there they grieve;
O, how still!
My brain, with dreams and shadows that my fancy used to weave,
How they fill!
The kind—the feared—the false—old looks that fondle, scare, deceive—
Old ringing laughs, and saddest sighs — the gone for whom we grieve—
For me the shadowy twilights of the solemn past they leave,
At my will.
O, how still!
My brain, with dreams and shadows that my fancy used to weave,
How they fill!
The kind—the feared—the false—old looks that fondle, scare, deceive—
Old ringing laughs, and saddest sighs — the gone for whom we grieve—
For me the shadowy twilights of the solemn past they leave,
At my will.
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The man is there the infant — the girl's long-vanished smiles
There remain;
And tottering age to stirring life, the magic here beguiles;
All in vain
Time would hide them. O, enchanter, here thy silent, wondrous wiles,
To thy canvasses, that glow with matchless charms of all sweet styles,
Beauty faded — life departed — friendship, absent weary miles,
Call again.
There remain;
And tottering age to stirring life, the magic here beguiles;
All in vain
Time would hide them. O, enchanter, here thy silent, wondrous wiles,
To thy canvasses, that glow with matchless charms of all sweet styles,
Beauty faded — life departed — friendship, absent weary miles,
Call again.
On the deepening summer shadows—on the redly-glowing fire,
So she'll paint
All that eye and heart have seen, or see, or ever can desire;
Clear or faint,
There she limns them, and with gladdened eyes, that never of them tire,
All the wonder — sweetness — sadness, of her marvels I admire.
Ah, my pictures beat your rarest, though they may not have a buyer,
Child or saint.
So she'll paint
All that eye and heart have seen, or see, or ever can desire;
Clear or faint,
There she limns them, and with gladdened eyes, that never of them tire,
All the wonder — sweetness — sadness, of her marvels I admire.
Ah, my pictures beat your rarest, though they may not have a buyer,
Child or saint.
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