And thus, through all life's ills, you bear This thought, from which you cannot part; And in your heart there seems to be
For her a chamber set apart,
A place which you can never fill
With any other guest at will.
TO L, SITTING FOR A PORTRAIT.
Paint her not in ball-room guise,
Masked for world-festivities;
Only round her shoulders throw
Crimson shawl in wavy flow:
Well it suits that raven braid,
And her dark cheek's olive shade;
While those eyes, not large, but deep,
'Neath their night-black lashes sleep,
Till the sudden-rising lid,
Night displacing, gives, instead,
All the azure of that day
That hidden 'neath its lashes lay.
And that tress's ebon braid
Serves to give my portrait shade;
Glossy hair, of deepest dye,
O'er a forehead, broad, not high,
Heightening the pensive tone
From her long dark lashes thrown.
View her in calm moonlight then;
Trace each softened feature plain ;
But to paint the rising smile
That illumes her face the while,
Lies, O painter! beyond art:
Thou must learn that of thy heart.
Half in sunshine, half in shade,
Hangs the portrait of a maid,
By some master-hand portrayed.
How it came my room to grace
With its fresh young loveliness,
I could never know or guess.
Silken tresses, brown in hue,
Giving golden gleams to view,
Where the sunlight flashes through,
Half in ringlets, half in braid,-
These o'er sunny shoulders played,
Those the portrait's background made.
From those calm eyes' holy shine,
You might deem the maid divine;
Worship, prostrate, at her shrine,
Till those lips forbid the thought:
That arch pouting, earth has taught:
Deftly hath the limner wrought.
Much too wayward for a saint
(Ne'er was earth such mortal lent):
Was the maid for Houri meant?
No: vestal eyes forbid the thought:
Their pure language Heaven taught ;
That clear light was Heaven-caught.
And yet the portrait puzzles me.
But hold! Some writing here I see:
Here words are traced: "From Memory!"
WHY DOST THOU TALK OF DEATH?
"From Memory!" And can it be
'Twas ever granted man to see
Vision of such sweet purity?
"From Memory!" Ah! could I make
A pilgrimage for her sweet sake,
No rest these weary feet should take,
Till, traversing the wide earth round,
Exploring her remotest bound,
My heart's dear image I had found.
WHY DOST THOU TALK OF DEATH, LADDIE?
WHY dost thou talk of death, laddie?
Why dost thou long to go?
The Master that hath placed thee here
Hath work for thee to do.
WHY DOST THOU TALK OF DEATH?
Why dost thou talk of heaven, laddie?
What wouldst thou say in heaven
When the Master asks, "What hast thou done With the talents I have given?
"I gave thee wealth and power,
And the poor around thee spread:
Where are the sheep and lambs of mine
That thou hast reared and fed?
"I gave thee wit and eloquence,
Thy brethren to persuade :
Where are the thousands by thy word
More wise and holy made?
"I placed thee in a land of light,
Where the gospel round thee shone: Where is the heavenly-mindedness
I find in all my own?
"And last I sent thee chastisement, That thou mightst be my son:
Where is the trusting faith that says,
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