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TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.
Such power is thine!—they come, the dead,
From the grave's bondage free,
And smiling back the changed are led,
To look in love on thee;
And voices that are music flown
Speak to me in the heart's full tone.
Till crowding thoughts my soul oppress,
The thoughts of happier years,
And a vain gush of tenderness
O'erflows in child-like tears;
A passion which I may not stay,
A sudden fount that must have way.
But thou, the while—oh! almost strange,
Mine imaged self! it seems
That on thy brow of peace no change
Reflects my own swift dreams;
Almost I marvel not to trace
Those lights and shadows in thy face.
