Ay! with mine eyes of flesh, I did behold
The likeness of their flesh! They, the great dead,
Stood still upon the canvass, while I told
The glorious memories to their ashes wed.
There, I beheld the Sidneys:—he, who bled
Freely for freedom's sake, bore gallantly
His soul upon his brow;—he, whose lute said
Sweet music to the land, meseem'd to be
Dreaming with that pale face, of love and Arcadie.
Mine heart had shrined these. And therefore past
Were these, and such as these, in mine heart's pride,
Which deem'd death, glory's other name. At last
I stay'd my pilgrim feet, and paused beside
A picture,[1] which the shadows half did hide.
The form was a fair woman's form; the brow
Brightly between the clustering curls espied:
The cheek a little pale, yet seeming so
As, if the lips could speak, the paleness soon would go.
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THE PICTURE GALLERY AT PENSHURST.
