Poems (Argent)/In the Picture Gallery at South Kensington

by Alice Emily Argent

IN THE PICTURE GALLERY AT SOUTH KENSINGTON.

 

PRIZE POEM CONTRIBUTED TO "GREAT THOUGHTS."

 

"A room hung with pictures is like a room hung with thoughts."—Sir Joshua Reynolds.

I SAW before me forms of long ago,
Immortal spirits of the great and wise,
Prolific genius flickering to and fro
      From hosts of radiant eyes!

Adown the corridor slipped ghostly feet
Of bygone ages, and the dim dark light
Gleamed fitfully around me, soft and sweet,
      As in an autumn night.

Afar the city traffic rose and fell,
Innumerable murmurs filled the air
From rumbling wheels, and the cathedral bell
      Struck out the hour for prayer.

[ saw before me myriad forms of men,
Heroic women beauteous in their pride,
Statesmen and artists, sovereigns of the pen,
      Each hanging side by side.

And one T loved with all my soul was there,
The greatest writer of our time and race,
I knew at once 'twixt bands of folded hair,
      George Eliot's noble face!

That broad white brow so full of living thought,
The sweet pathetic eyes that seemed to scan
With larger sight than ours what time had wrought
      Upon the heart of man.

Upon her face there sat the seal of truth,
The loftiest ideal human soul can reach,
The dream of beauty and perpetual youth,
      All that true worth can teach.

Within the distance towered the hills of Rome,
Th' immortal city that was once so fair,
With pinnacle and temple, spire and dome,
      And tesselated stair!

George Eliot! great in wisdom and in fame,
I stand with reverence all mute, and gaze
Upon the crownèd lustre round thy name,
      Above poor human praise.

Not far beyond that glorious head of power
Elizabeth Browning showed a smiling face,
That drooped like to a withered lily flower,
      In that ghost-haunted place.

Too weird-like were her eyes with sweetness wrought,
And wan ill-health betrayed her painful sway
Upon those classic brows of deepest thought,
      Whereon death's finger lay.

And as I dwelt upon that tender mouth,
Whereon a touch of transient sorrow hung,
I roamed with her within the sunny south,
      Where her great songs were sung.

And farther on, mine eyes a portrait saw,
A man that Nature hailed as her true son,
I looked with feelings not unmixed with awe
      Upon that gifted one,

The poet Wordsworth, 'mid his hills and streams
He loved so well, all peacefully he stood,
And saw bright visions, dreamed his fairest dreams
      Of sacred brotherhood!

There in his hand the pencilled page he held,
Whereon some thought had flashed across his mind;
Around, the mountain breezes sobbed and swelled,
      Like bells upon the wind!

The clear blue sky above him opened wide,
O'er his bared head and scanty locks of snow,
The wild flowers that he loved sprang side by side,
      The torrent dashed below.

And there with Nature Wordsworth ever trod
The pleasant paths of holiness and rest,
Alone with Nature, and with Nature's God
      Locked in his gentle breast.

Here, Mary Stuart's fateful beauty gleamed
From a recess,—a garden of romance
Dwelt in her face, as if she fondly dreamed
      Of her beloved France!

There, poor Nell Gwynne, of whom the Merry King
Made much of in his gay and reckless court;
She looked at best a weak and giddy thing,
      By riches sold and bought.

And Kemble as the Prince of Denmark shone;
A full-length figure in majestic guise,
He stood in princely grandeur, sad, alone,
      With madness in his eyes!

And farther, Scott, with deerhound at his feet,
Sat reading, in his chair, the covered page
Of some historic novel quaint and neat
      Now handed down to age.

And loyal Nelson showed so true and brave,
Old England's hero evermore to be,
Who knew no fear of an untimely grave,
      The lion of the sea!

And Elizabeth Fry, the philanthropic friend
Who trod the dim, dark prison house, and came
With loving words and mercy without end
      To all in sin and shame.

And many others of a long dead past,
Of high-born lineage and of ancient date,
Were pictured in those galleries dim and vast
      In sweeping robes of state.

Too soon the day was ended; twilight spread
Her filmy veil o'er those old worlds that keep
The golden sunset Art weaves round the dead
      Of consecrated sleep!