« ZurückWeiter »
The red June Roses now are past,
MY PICTURE GALLERY.
! OU write and think of me, my friend, with pity; While you are basking in the light of Rome, Shut up within the heart of this great city, Too busy and too poor to leave my home.
You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure,
There a wide Common, blackened though and dreary
Towards the West I turn my weary spirit,
VII. There I have seen a sunset's crimson glory,
There I have seen the Clouds, in pomp and splendour,
IX. Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly,
Or parted clouds, as if asunder riven By some great angel—and beyond a space Of far-off tranquil light; the gates of Heaven Will lead us grandly to as calm a place.
Or stern dark walls of cloudy mountain ranges
Or in wild wrath the affrighted clouds lay shattered,
XIII. What land or time can claim the Master Painter,
xiv. « So there I wait, until the shade has lengthened, And night's blue misty curtain floated down; Then, with my heart calmed, and my spirit
strengthened, I crawl once more back to the sultry town.
xv. What Monarch, then, has nobler recreations Than mine? Or where the great and classic Land Whose wealth of Art delights the gathered nations That owns a Picture Gallery half as grand?