The Picture Gallery.
47
Then weep not o'er the portraits there,The dead and gone, the loved, the dear;But if thou wilt, consider longThe sweetest landscape these among.
THE PLACE.
'Tis a valley clasped in hills,Stitched with countless silver rills,Chesnut forests, dark and green,Tuscan tint, and sun-loved scene.
There an ancient palace hidCypresses and vines amid,Where grim shadows of the past,Elf-like dance, when clouds o'ercast.
THE PORTRAIT.
'Twas here that first a moon-lit face Broke through the clouds that o'erMy earthly way were gathering, I said "For evermore."
That face so true and beautiful, I love, yet now it seemsToo lovely for this saddened world,— A face one sees in dreams.
