More than is needed, but the precious Art
Forgives their interference-Art divine

That both creates and fixes, in despite

Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.

Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours!
That posture, and the look of filial love

Thinking of past and gone, with what is left
Dearly united, might be swept away
From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype,
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak
Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored
To their lost place, or meet in harmony
So exquisite; but here do they abide,
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art
Godlike, a humble branch of the divine,

In visible quest of immortality,

Stretched forth with trembling hope?-In every realm. From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains,

Thousands, in each variety of tongue

That Europe knows, would echo this appeal;
One above all, a Monk who waits on God

In the magnific Convent built of yore

To sanctify the Escurial palace. He-
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room,

A British Painter (eminent for truth

In character,* and depth of feeling, shown

By labours that have touched the hearts of kings,
And are endeared to simple cottagers)-

Came, in that service, to a glorious work,1

Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first

1

1837.

Left not unvisited a glorious work,

Wilkie. See the Fenwick note.-ED.

1835.

The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand,
Graced the Refectory: and there, while both
Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece,
The hoary Father in the Stranger's ear
Breathed out these words:" Here daily do we sit,
Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here
Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times,
And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed,
Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze
Upon this solemn Company unmoved
By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years,
Until I cannot but believe that they-

They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows."

So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs
Melting away within him like a dream
Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak :
And I, grown old, but in a happier land,
Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consigned
In thy calm presence those heart-moving words:
Words that can soothe, more than they agitate,
Whose spirit, like the angel that went down
Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue
Informs the fountain in the human breast

Which by the visitation was disturbed.

-But why this stealing tear? Companion mute,
On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well,
My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!*

1 1837.

That

1835.

The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has, in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. It need scarcely be added, that Wilkie is the painter alluded to.-W. W., 1835.

THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED.

Comp. 1834.

Pub. 1835.

AMONG a grave fraternity of Monks,

For One, but surely not for One alone,

Triumphs, in that great work, the Painter's skill,
Humbling the body, to exalt the soul;
Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong
And dissolution and decay, the warm

And breathing life of flesh, as if already
Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced
With no mean earnest of a heritage

Assigned to it in future worlds.

Thou, too,

With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture!

From whose serene companionship I passed

Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; thou also

Though but a simple object, into light

Called forth by those affections that endear

The private hearth; though keeping thy sole seat
In singleness, and little tried by time,
Creation, as it were, of yesterday—
With a congenial function art endued
For each and all of us, together joined
In course of nature under a low roof
By charities and duties that proceed
Out of the bosom of a wiser vow.
To a like salutary sense of awe

Or sacred wonder, growing with the power
Of meditation that attempts to weigh,

In faithful scales, things and their opposites,
Can thy enduring quiet gently raise

A household small and sensitive,-whose love,

Dependent as in part its blessings are
Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved

On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven.*

[This quatrain was extempore on observing this image, as I had often done, on the lawn of Rydal Mount. It was first written down in the Album of my God-daughter, Rotha Quillinan.]

SMALL service is true service while it lasts.

Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one;2
The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.†

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF LONSDALE, NOV. 5, 1834.

[This is a faithful picture of that amiable Lady, as she then was. The youthfulness of figure and demeanour and habits, which she

1 The original title was 'Written in an Album.'
Of Friends, however humble, scorn not one

2

1835.

1835.

* In the class entitled "Musing," in Mr Southey's Minor Poems, is one upon his own miniature Picture, taken in childhood, and another upon a landscape painted by Gaspar Poussin. It is possible that every word of the above verses, though similar in subject, might have been written had the author been unacquainted with those beautiful effusions of poetic sentiment. But, for his own satisfaction, he must be allowed thus publicly to acknowledge the pleasure those two Poems of his Friend have given him, and the grateful influence they have upon his mind as often as he reads them, or thinks of them.-W. W., 1835.

+ Compare the lines, written in 1845, beginning

"So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive."

-ED.

retained in almost unprecedented degree, departed a very few years after, and she died without violent disease by gradual decay before she reached the period of old age.]

LADY a Pen (perhaps with thy regard,

Among the Favoured, favoured not the least)
Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed,
Deliberate traces, registers of thought

And feeling, suited to the place and time

That gave them birth-months passed, and still this hand,
That had not been too timid to imprint

Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired,
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee.
And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth
The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself.
Flowers are there many that delight to strive
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower,
Yet are by nature careless of the sun

Whether he shine on them or not; and some,
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky,
Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams:
Others do rather from their notice shrink,
Loving the dewy shade,-a humble band,
Modest and sweet, a progeny of earth,

Congenial with thy mind and character,

High-born Augusta!

Witness Towers, and Groves!

And Thou, wild Stream, that giv'st the honoured name*

Of Lowther to this ancient Line, bear witness1

From thy most secret haunts; and ye Parterres,

1

1837.

Towers, and stately Groves,

Bear witness for me; thou, too, Mountain-stream!

1835.

* The Lowther stream passes the Castle, and joins the Eamont below Brougham Hall, near Penrith.-ED.