Bright House of Dreams, your galleries extend;
Give larger place to Memory’s echoing halls.
Let golden cords from silver rods depend,
That I may hang more pictures on your walls.
What treasures have I gathered in the years
Of pilgrimage among the quiet hills.
No nobler work on Linton's walls appears;
No fairer fancy Rossi's studio fills.
All painted by the oldest masters too—
Sir Sol, his rainbow palette in his hand;
Luna, her silver pencil dipped in dew;
August, most handsome of Dame Flora’s band.
Dawn, with his taper fingers rosy red;
Evening, her royal shading unsurpassed.
The vagrant seasons, painting as they sped,
Vowing each master-piece to he their last.
These, and that super-craftsman, Cloud by name,
Did in times past their genius record.
Nature, the cunning dealer, knew their fame,
And cleverly their costly works restored.
Room then, for these: and for more precious things,
Bright House of Dreams, upon your mist-grey walls—
Portraits more fair than all imaginings;
Faces that smiled on me in Friendship's halls.
So build a larger place for Memory.
And though your shining door stands wide at night,
Yet would I use by day Love’s jewelled key,
And enter in, renewing my delight.
The Tree of Time his leafy boughs outspread;
The migrant months, like birds had built their nests,
And reared their broods of singing days that fled
Too soon on flashing wings with gleaming breasts.
But some, their mournful wailings uttering,
Were dull of feather and of languid flight;
And, gloom to gloom, at last on weary wing
They vanished o’er the hueless sea of night.
But best and brightest were the mystery" days
Of closely folded wing and sombre plume;
Till, challenged by a wind from forest ways.
Full laden with the scent of wattle-bloom.
The wakened birds an answering challenge cried—
"Away! away!" they sang; and soared and wheeled;