University of Virginia Library

RECOLLECTIONS OF A PICTURE.

It is an antique chamber: midnight's pall
Has thrown its shadows o'er the pannell'd wall,
The frescoed ceiling and the oaken floor,
The inlaid cabinet, the massy door,
The time-worn tapestry which clothes the room,
And lends its share of black funereal gloom.
Darkness is broken by the pale moonbeams,
Which thro' the casement pour in fitful gleams,
And mingle with a lamp's dull, sickly glow,
That 'thwart the spacious chamber strives to throw
A ray that flickers feebly on the night,
And gives what is, and yet what is not, light.
Upon the dark and polished oaken floor
A dagger lies crimson'd with gouts of gore,
Near it a couch, where, 'neath the lamp's pale sheen,
A something lies which is but dimly seen:
Seems it a human form, but cover'd round
With drapery down flowing to the ground,
'Tis hard to say what is the thing aright,
So faintly also falls on it the light.
Full in the moonlight, lonely sits there one
Whom woe and grief seem to have made their own;
Her hands are clasped convulsively, her eye
Is wild, and fixed in some strange agony,
Out-starting from the socket, and the tear
Is dried upon the pupils, hot and sear;
The face is blanch'd and scared, but here and there
A hectic burns, the symbol of despair.
While o'er her form, like some dark torrent's flow,
In raven masses parted from her brow,
Her loosened tresses wildly streaming fall,
And sweep the floor of that dim-lighted hall;
And lend her cheek the wan and ghastly white
Of snows that shiver 'neath the moon's pale light.
Her bloodless lips press tightly; some sore pain
Shoots fiercely through her heart, and sears her brain,
And wrings her soul, and gives that frightful air
Of mingled dread, defiance, and despair.
Sorrow or grief, or care, perchance, or crime,
Has lined her marble brow; it is not time;
For few her summers seem, and she is fair,
Despite the agony that struggles there,
And wastes her with its fire. You know not why,
But when yours meet that wild and burning eye,
A nameless chill and fear upon you seize,
That curdles up the blood, and makes it freeze:
As his would do, if loathsome worms should creep
And coldly writhe about his limbs in sleep,
And then wakes horribly, with sudden start,
To find them clust'ring coldly round his heart.
What well of anguish springs in that young breast?
Is guilt, or frenzy, that fair bosom's guest?
There is not one to tell; but it must be
A dark, no doubt a guilty history.
And oft for hours I sit and muse, and frame
Me reasons why that blight upon her came,
Which wither'd up her youth, and on it fell,
To shadow all her life with its dark spell.
They say, on earth there is not one who knows,
The tale of that fair lady's bitter woes;
And that the record is immersed in gloom,
And buried with the painter in his tomb,
For ever with him perishing.