Poems (Eckley)/The Picture Gallery

by Sophia May Eckley

THE PICTURE GALLERY.

NOCK softly then on memory's sacred door,
 For through a garden first thy steps will lead—
The picture gallery is far within.
 Pause for a moment ere thou enterest in,

Look to thy feet, they should be shod with care,
 Or better still, unloose thy sandals worn—
O'er jewelled pavements first will lead the way,
 Nor heed the rough stones if the path so turn.

Nor think to onward pass without the fee,
 A spirit stands in waiting, do not fear,
But drop the fee,—a prayer—then boldly pass
 Down the long gallery, and shed no tear.

THE PICTURES.

Portraits! landscapes! fruits and flowers!
Gurgling streams and myrtle bowers,
Dark frowning rocks, and rivers deep,
And swift cascades in headlong leap.

Then weep not o'er the portraits there,
The dead and gone, the loved, the dear;
But if thou wilt, consider long
The sweetest landscape these among.

THE PLACE.

'Tis a valley clasped in hills,
Stitched with countless silver rills,
Chesnut forests, dark and green,
Tuscan tint, and sun-loved scene.

There an ancient palace hid
Cypresses and vines amid,
Where grim shadows of the past,
Elf-like dance, when clouds o'ercast.

THE PORTRAIT.

'Twas here that first a moon-lit face
 Broke through the clouds that o'er
My earthly way were gathering,
 I said "For evermore."

That face so true and beautiful,
 I love, yet now it seems
Too lovely for this saddened world,—
 A face one sees in dreams.

Silent or speaking, evermore
 I love that changeful face—
So spirit-like she treads the earth,
 So lightly in her grace,

As if she walked another life—
 Though she may tread earth's way,
There is a lightness in her tread,
 As if she'd float away.

And when she sings—her voice so sweet,
 It thrills me while it cheers;
I often weep—she does not know
 She sings me into tears.

THE NAME.

Aye! well art thou so named, my English flower,
 Since still each flower must have its name,
Thus is thy name then, thy best and sweetest dower—
 None meeter couldst thou claim
Than "Alice."

The rose by any other name as sweet
 Would smell, "the Swan of Avon" sung;
And yet the very name is e'er replete
 With fragrance tho' unsung,
Sweet "Alice."

A royal Princess, true, thou may'st not be,
 Tho' linked to royalty thy name;
And yet I willing pause—nobility
 Rests not on crown or fame,
Proud "Alice."

And thus my flower, my lovely English flower,
 I hold thee to thy Norman name,
And count it e'en thy best and sweetest dower,
 No meeter could'st thou claim—
My "Alice."