Have lapsed since she approved her painter's work, Her smile has such sincerity, all feel They must have known her some time in their lives. Here bossed on silver vase, a marriage train Moves round to music: lookers-on cast flowers Before the timid bending bride: meanwhile, Stalwart and proud, her bridegroom smiles abroad As at a dazzling sun: the pipers blow, The harpers twang, the cymbals clash, youths sing; Six maidens walk behind to hold her veil, One pair are sad, the next look vain, and two Prettily whisper secrets to themselves. Here from old paper stands, and looks of men The manliest, and king of English kings, The lion Cromwell, in his dress of war: Beneath him coils a monster welling blood, Whose severed heads stretch round in scattered gleam Of mitre jewelled, coronet and crown. Sharp cut on gem, set in a thick gold ring, The size and roundness of a lady's nail, Love bleeding on the dart himself doth point; Who thus had died, had not with tenderest touch Immortal Psyche held the anguished heart Fast to her own, and purified the pain, And fanned him with her wings. And now, as then, Along those hushed rich corridors we moved, Poring each masterpiece we favoured most, And would no longer stay, but felt some chance Must serve us for the rest: musing, I pass From scene to scene of My Dear Lady's life, And leave my other memories undisturbed. Beneath this airy sapphire's brooding rest, Its shadows overcast me with a chill Like coming storm, that black calamity Which struck and took our Darling from their charge And mine. Grief stupefied us all. At once The childless mother lost her wavering strength, And lay prostrated; never tasting life On earth again! Beside her husband sat And watched her fading; saw the last poor smile Wane from her features; till the closing eyes Lit into tearful rapture; when he knew Love's immortality to her revealed. With both her own she mutely clasped his hand, And held it in most gentle pressures fixed: But when the tender grasp relaxed and fell, The world closed round him to a stony blank. And now was stricken down the mighty man; As the ripe harvest levelled by a storm At morningtide; which, ere sun warmth anew Can flatter into strength, a second storm O'erwhelms and scattereth to waste at even.