SONNETS,

ON PICTURES IN THE HUNTINGTON GALLERY.

———

BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.

———

I.—ST. JOHN.

I stood within the glowing, graceful ring

Of pictures hung upon the gallery’s wall:—

The admiring murmur of the crowd did bring

My step to pause before a shape, in all

The thoughtful grace of artist-skill designed,

The sense of Beauty felt—but not defined.

Thou face, serene in solemn tenderness—

In the uplifting of those calm, deep eyes;

On the rapt brow of holy earnestness

The light of prophecy reflected lies.

The mystic vision of the Apocalypse

Thy pen of fire sublimely did record:

But most we love His lessons from thy lips—

John, thou beloved disciple of the Lord!

II.—MERCY’S DREAM.

Like thee to dream, by angel-wings unshaded!

The starry crown hangs o’er thy meek young head,

Flinging a glory round thee, like the braided

And brilliant tints by a rich sunset shed.

O loveliest vision of the painter’s thought—

Born in his happiest hour of inspiration,

How more than fair the exquisite creation

His genius-gifted pencil here hath wrought!

How wondrously is charmed the “Pilgrim” story

That made my childhood’s ever new delight:

Sweet Mercy! now, in tenderest grace and glory,

Thy pale, bright picture floats before my sight.

Thrice blesséd! and thrice beautiful! might we

But in our dreams some guardian-angel see!

III.—THE MARYS AT THE SEPULCHRE.

The first faint crimson of the early morning

Dawned on the tomb where the loved Master lay;

And on the Marys, who for His adorning

Came bearing spices sweet, at break of day.

In meek, mute reverence, near the sepulchre

The mourners drew, as round a sacred shrine—

And gazing down for the dear form divine—

The unsealed stone—the white-robed messenger—

Met their affrighted view! In awe they fled,

And she, the Magdalen! the tidings spread,

“Christ is arisen!” O, woman! in that hour

Well might a solemn rapture fill thy mind—

Thou, earth’s poor outcast, honored with high power

To bear such joyful tidings to mankind.

IV.—PIETY.

Meek list’ner! on whose purely virgin brow

Is set the beauty of submissive thought:

Oh! blest beyond Earth’s favored ones art thou,

Whose earnest eyes so reverently caught

The Teacher’s look, with mild, grave wisdom fraught.

How was the awakened soul within thee stirred

To suppliant or adoring tones, as fell

The quickening power of the Eternal Word,

Like the winged seed, on thy young heart; to dwell

A germ not lost! A heavenly light serene,

Unclouded, sits on thy soft, spiritual mien—

I call thee Blest, for thou hast chosen well,

Daughter of Christ! O, happy to have given

The bloom of thy unblighted years to Heaven!

V.—FOLLY.

And this is Folly! Like a flaunting flower

Her red lips part half wanton, half in scorn:

Over the wreck of many a squandered hour

This poor frail child of Pleasure well might mourn.

But with the consciousness of beauty born,

Exulting in her youth’s superior brightness—

(Not yet the rose-leaves from her garland torn)—

She moves along to scenes of festal lightness.

The aged teacher’s solemn, sacred lesson

Is a dead letter to her worldly spirit—

The Word of Life—its Promise, and its Blessing,

The world’s gay votary cares not to inherit!

No claims upon a heritage divine—

This lot, O Folly! this sad lot is thine.