 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
SONNETS.—WITH MY PORTRAIT.
[I. My portrait! will it serve when I am dead]
My portrait! will it serve when I am dead,To bring me to thy memory, as beside
Thy cheerful fire thou sitt'st at eventide—
Thoughtfully resting on thy hand thy head:
And, from thy mantle, with unconscious glance—
How full of speech to friendship!—I look down,
And catch thy sudden glances upward thrown,
Or note thine eyes fixed on me in a trance,
Speaking dear memories of sweet seasons gone,
Precious to both, and full of that fresh faith
That won the heart by fond soliciting
Of the true nature, and the generous spring,
Ere Hope had found denial, or Love scaith,
And to believe in all we feel and see,
Is youth's delight and best necessity?
148
[II. Yet why the portrait? If to thee as me]
Yet why the portrait? If to thee as me,That Past be still a memory of delight,
And Love and Faith, with hands for ever free,
Brought goodly fruits; and these were, in thy sight,
A precious boon of blessing, such as still
Recalls their perish'd blossoms with a thrill,
Even while the winter, with an aspect chill,
Takes absolute place upon thy lonely hearth:
Then do I sit with thee beside the fire;
Share all thy solitude; help thee to thy mirth;
And smile with thee to see the glooms retire:
If such my presence in thy heart's desire,
Such the keen quickening of thy soul with mine,
What need my portrait? I need none of thine!
[III. The indelible hues of memory on my heart]
The indelible hues of memory on my heart,Have limn'd thee in perfection rare as true;
I see thee rise before my present view,
Each lineament all living as thou art—
As Art can never reach! Thy pale white brow,
Lofty and massive; the keen falcon eye,
Eager, yet with that arch vivacity
Which argued well the merry heart below;
The brown curls scattered o'er thy forehead fair;
The Roman beak; the sweet mouth free of guile;
The very girlish dimple in thy smile,
That still betray'd the quip before its birth,
When the sly thought, half satire and half mirth,
Made thee the happiest Yorick at our cheer.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |