THE PORTRAIT.

In a lumbering attic room, Where, for want of light and air, Years had died within the gloom, Leaving dead dust everywhere, Everywhere, Hung the portrait of a lady, With a face so fair!

Time had long since dulled the paint, Time, which all our arts disguise, And the features now were faint, All except the wondrous eyes, Wondrous eyes, Ever looking, looking, looking, With such sad surprise!

As man loveth, man had loved Her whose features faded there; As man mourneth, man had mourned, Weeping, in his dark despair, Bitter tears, When she left him broken-hearted To his death of years.

Then for months the picture bent All its eyes upon his face, Following his where'er they went,— Till another filled the place In its stead,— Till the features of the living Did outface the dead.

Then for years it hung above In that attic dim and ghast, Fading with the fading love, Sad reminder of the past,— Save the eyes, Ever looking, ever looking, With such sad surprise!

Oft the distant laughter's sound Entered through the cobwebbed door, And the cry of children found Dusty echoes from the floor To those eyes, Ever looking, ever looking, With their sad surprise.

Once there moved upon the stair Olden love-steps mounting slow, But the face that met him there Drove him to the depths below; For those eyes Through his soul seemed looking, looking, All their sad surprise.

From that day the door was nailed Of that memory-haunted room, And the portrait hung and paled In the dead dust and the gloom,— Save the eyes, Ever looking, ever looking, With such sad surprise!