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IN LONDON—AT THE NATIONAL GALLERY—BEFORE MURILLO'S “HOLY FAMILY.”
“We are such things as dreams are made of;”—yes,
Friends, seem we not as breathings upon glass,
As wind-swept shades of clouds, that swiftly pass,
Seen by these changeless ones who ever bless
With the great glory of their loveliness,
All generations. Even as the grass,
We come and are not, while our works, alas!
Mock our mortality and nothingness.
Were earth our all, and did no lustres lie,
Of heaven, before our ever-aging eyes,
Well might we cry with him, who daily by
Great Leonardo's blest ones pass'd, “Man dies;
“These radiant ones are of eternity;
“We are the shadows; they, realities.”
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