The herald., 1894-12-24
Tho Portrait.

| This is her picture as she was;
1t seems thing to wonder on,
| AS though mine image in the glass
| Should tarry when myself am gone.
| gaze until she seems to STIR
| Until mine eyes almost aver
That now, even now. the sweet lips part
To breathe the words of the sweet heart;
| And yet the earth is over her.
In painting her shrined her face
Mid mystic trees. where light falls in
Hardly at all a covert place
Where you might think to find din
| OF doubtful talk. and live fame
| Wandering, and many a shape whose name
| Not itself knoweth, and old dew,
And your own footsteps meeting you.
And all things going they came.
A deep, dim wood; and there she stands
AS in that wood hat day; for so
Was the st II movement of her hands
And such the pure lines gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream,
'Tis she; though OF herself, alas!
Less than her shadow on the grass
Or than her image in the stream
That day we met there and she,
One with the other all alone
Saddens those hours, as VIII IN the moon
Looks upon daylight. And with her
stopped to drink the spring water,
Athirst where other waters sprang;
And where the echo is, she sang
My soul another echo there.
But when that hour my soul won strength
For words whose silence wastes and kills,
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length
Inra = l. IL ,,,;tI, 1.
That eve l spoke those words aga in
Beside the pelted window pane;
And there she hardened what 1 said,
With under-glances that surveyed
The empty pastures blind with rain.
Next day the memories Of these things,
Like leaves through which bird has flown,
Still vibrated with Loves warm wings;
Till must make them all my own
And paint this picture. So 'twixt ease
OF talk and sweet long silences.
She stood among the plants in bloom
At windows of a summer room,
To feign the shadows of the trees,
And as wrought, while all above
And all around was frag rant air,
In the sick burthen of my love
1t seems each sun-thrilIed blossom there
Beat like the heat among the leaves.
heart that never beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still,
What now to thee my loves great will
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?
For now doth daylight disavow
Those days-naught left to see or hear,
Only in solemn whispers now
At nighttime these things reach mine ear,
When the leaf-shadows at a breath
Shrink in the road, and all the heath,
Forest and water, far and wide.
In limpid starlight glorifed,
Lie like the mystery OF death.
Last night at last l could have slept
And yet delayed my sleep till dawn.
Still wandering. Then it was wept;
For unawares l came'upoa
Those glades where once she walked with me;
And as l stood there suddenly,
All wan with traversing the night,
Upon the desolate verge of light,
Yearned loud the iron bosomed sea.
Even so, where heaven holds breath and hears
The beating heart OF Loves own breast
Where round the secret of all spheres
All angels lay their wings to rest
When, by the new birth borne abroad
Throughout the music of the suns,
1t enters In her soul at once
And knows the silence there for Godl
Here with her face doth memo ry sit
Meanwhile, and wait the days decline
Till other eyes shall look from it,
Eyes of the spirits Palestine,
Even than the old gaze tenderer;
While hopes and aims long lost with ne,
Stand round her image side by side.
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
About the Holy sepulchre.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Buckingham's Dye for the Whisker IN be
applied when at home. and is uniformly sue.
cess ul in coioring brown or black. Hence
its gre at popularity.