Poems (Howard)/My Pictures

by Hattie Howard

My Pictures

They are not set in frames of gold,
Nor painted by the masters old,
 Whose names are celebrated
For deft and true artistic touch;
But still I prize them quite as much,
 And gaze on them elated.

Nor were these treasures handed me
An heirloom from the family tree,
 And rich in many a blessing
From pious ancestry—nor were
They purchased by a connoisseur
 Rare cultured taste possessing.

But in my chamber, while I slept,
Some magic artist softly stepped
 From distant realms Elysian,
And wrought upon my window-pane
Such wondrous pictures, that I fain
 Believe I see a vision.

His cunning hand disdained the light,
And fashioned in the gloom of night,
 Such strange designs—I wonder
If, 'twixt me and the heavenly land,
That shadowy veil by his command
 Has not been rent asunder.

While I in admiration stand,
And to that viewless master-hand
 My silent homage tender,
The morning sunlight, glancing through,
Makes one kaleidoscopic view
 Of rich prismatic splendor.

I fancy that I see the wall
Of jasper, amethyst, and all
 Celestial gems combining,
That round the New Jerusalem
Gleams like a royal diadem
 In heavenly luster shining.

A great white throne I now behold,
The King thereon, the streets of gold,
 And waiting seraphs kneeling;
The open pearly gates disclose
The ever-living stream that flows
 Beneath the trees of healing.

And thus do busy fancies throng
My curious brain, and make me long
 To know that great Designer,
Who thus works out his secret plan,
So far exceeding skill of man,
 And infinitely finer.

The sun looks down with ardent ray,
And soon, alas! will melt away
 My treasures evanescent;
But they have not been wrought in vain,
For memory of them shall remain
 A joy forever present.

And I shall see the counterpart
Of that blest scene that won my heart
 For one delightful hour;
The world is wide—I look abroad
"Through Nature up to Nature's God."
 And own his wondrous power.