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AN OLD PORTAIT.
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AN OLD PORTRAIT.
HIS time-worn canvas bears a pictured face,Which, once beheld, comes back to thought again,—
Passionate, proud, yet touched with tender grace,
And marked with lines which tell of hidden pain.
O noble face! in whose compelling eyes
There lurks a power which stays me on my way,
Which thrills me always with a new surprise,
And holds me gazing half the livelong day,—
There lurks a power which stays me on my way,
Which thrills me always with a new surprise,
And holds me gazing half the livelong day,—
Strange eyes, whose earthly task of smiles and tears
Was finished long ago, and sealed in night;
Eyes which were closed in death a hundred years
Before mine own had opened to the light,—
Was finished long ago, and sealed in night;
Eyes which were closed in death a hundred years
Before mine own had opened to the light,—
Why do you haunt me so? Some bitter days,
When all the rose-tints vanish from my sky,
And I go stumbling down life's darkest ways,
I can but think perhaps the reason why
When all the rose-tints vanish from my sky,
And I go stumbling down life's darkest ways,
I can but think perhaps the reason why
