house; She ever heedful parted silently, And flushed with sunset vanished from our gaze; But we beheld her soon dawn from the porch In haste bringing her mother’s mantle. When, As comes the tide-wave up an easy beach, Played with a billowy sound and look of foam The thousand folds round her advancing feet, p. 145Her shape divine looking as great as ocean’s Light beyond: yet no sea bird that gleams From the blue-arched illimitable heaven Could glide with lightness airier than she To hang the garment round her mother’s neck; And then strike, womanlike, the folds in place; Kissing the thankful lips, and deftly fix The fastening at her throat. While pondering thus And patching these rich fragments, strange it seems What little things obtrude on my regard! I now remember every sculptured group, And painted scene, and portrait, figured vase, Each print unique, and gem, we once beheld When visiting a mansion near, enriched By generations of collected Art: The masters, by whose hands the works were wrought, Long mouldered into dust. Ah, well I know Why some have burned their symbols in my brain p. 146And rise before me now! Stone-bound, Narcissus Droops melting in himself; and Echo by, In shrunk despair, hangs envying what he wastes. Through smouldering morning mists a glorious sun The mountain-shoulder burns; above, transmutes The zenith cloudlets into airy gold; And deep down, seen through pure crystalline blue, Glimmer the village, lake, and mountain range. Superb at ease a Lady stands and smiles Sweet welcome to the world: though centuries Have lapsed since she approved her painter’s work, Her smile has such sincerity, all feel They must have known her some time in their lives. Here bossed on silver vase, a marriage train Moves round to music: lookers-on cast flowers Before the timid bending bride: meanwhile, p. 147Stalwart and proud, her bridegroom smiles abroad As at a dazzling sun: the pipers blow, The harpers twang, the cymbals clash, youths sing; Six maidens walk behind to hold her veil, One pair are sad, the next look vain, and two Prettily whisper secrets to themselves. Here from old paper stands, and looks of men The manliest, and king of English kings, The lion Cromwell, in his dress of war: Beneath him coils a monster welling blood, Whose severed heads stretch round in scattered gleam Of mitre jewelled, coronet and crown. Sharp cut on gem, set in a thick gold ring, The size and roundness of a lady’s nail, Love bleeding on the dart himself doth point; Who thus had died, had not with tenderest touch Immortal Psyche held the anguished heart Fast to her own, and purified the pain, And fanned him with her wings. And now, as then, p. 148Along those hushed rich corridors we moved, Poring each masterpiece we favoured most, And would no longer 

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