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THE PAINTER.
Even that desolate city, whose dim towers,
Ruins, and palaces, seem as they looked
Back on departed time. Then in the gloom
Of his own convent's silent burying ground,
Where, o'er the quiet dead, the cypresses mourned,
He pass'd the noon, dreaming those dear day-dreams,
Not so much hopes as fancies. Then at eve,
When through the painted windows the red sun
Rainbowed the marble floor with radiant hues,
Where spread the ancient church's stately arch,
He stayed, till the deep music of the hymn,
Chanted to the rich organ's rolling notes,
Bade farewell to the day. Then to his cell
He went, and through the casement's iron bars
The moon looked on him, tenderly as Love,
Lighting his slumber. On the church's wall
