"I know you flout this 'gold materialism,' For what you call the 'gold of evening skies:' But let me tell you, boy, for you 'tis well My lands are broad and bankers true, or else Your maiden, she, poor girl, I often think, Would want a crust to eat and shoes to wear." Thus he, in what I call his 'copper-gilt,' For which I paid him tinsel; "She want shoes! Her feet will press the flowers of paradise, And, being angel, she will need no food." "Eugh! Get your tackle, let us catch some trout." She never stayed a long while from her home, But lived a quiet life; contentedly Taking the continent and many things On trust; feeling our landscapes satisfied Her love for scenes. When from a visit she Returned, no lovelier picture ever blessed My sight than when she swam into his arms, And stood in beauty, frail, against his strength Supporting her, and kissed his lips and cheeks And brow. He then, as if his daughter yet Were but a child, would press the upturned head Between his hands, where peered the innocent face Rosy with smile and blush, like a sweet flower Bursting its tawny sheath: whereon he gazed A father's gaze immeasurably kind; And long, in tenderness akin to pity, There held her, who was beautiful and good. One eve full late in balmy summer time We feared the wind breathing of night had chilled Her tranquil mother, as we paced a walk Leading espalier-trellised to the house; She ever heedful parted silently, And flushed with sunset vanished from our gaze; But we beheld her soon dawn from the porch In haste bringing her mother's mantle. When, As comes the tide-wave up an easy beach, Played with a billowy sound and look of foam The thousand folds round her advancing feet, Her shape divine looking as great as ocean's Light beyond: yet no sea bird that gleams From the blue-arched illimitable heaven Could glide with lightness airier than she To hang the garment round her mother's neck; And then strike, womanlike, the folds in place; Kissing the thankful lips, and deftly fix The fastening at her throat. While pondering thus And patching these rich fragments, strange it seems What little things obtrude on my regard! I now remember every sculptured group, And painted scene, and portrait, figured vase, Each print unique, and gem, we once beheld When visiting a mansion near, enriched By generations of collected Art: The masters, by whose hands the works were wrought, Long mouldered into dust. Ah, well I know Why some have burned their symbols in my brain And rise before me now! Stone-bound, Narcissus Droops melting in himself; and Echo by, In shrunk despair, hangs envying what he wastes. Through smouldering morning mists a glorious sun The mountain-shoulder burns; above, transmutes The zenith cloudlets into airy gold; And deep down, seen through pure crystalline blue, Glimmer the village, lake, and mountain range. Superb at ease a Lady stands and smiles Sweet welcome to the world: though centuries