I see his cold, hard bed; I hear the chimes that jingled in his ears As he pressed nightly, with that wakeful head, A pillow wet with tears. Oh, restless little chime! It never changed--but rang its roundelay For each dark hour of that unhappy time That sighed itself away. And ever, more and more, Its burden grew of his lost self a part-- And mingled with his memories, and wore Its way into his heart. And there it wove the name Of many a town he loved, for one dear sake, Into its web of music; thus he came His little song to make. Of all that ever heard And loved it for its sweetness, none but I Divined the clew that, as a hidden word, The notes doth underlie. That wail from lips long dead Has found its echo in this breast alone! Only to me, by blood-remembrance led, Is that wild story known! And though 'tis mine, by right Of treasure-trove, to rifle and lay bare-- A heritage of sorrow and delight The world would gladly share-- Yet must I not unfold For evermore, nor whisper late or soon, The secret that a few slight bars thus hold Imprisoned in a tune. For when that little song Goes ringing in my head, I know that he, My luckless lone forefather, dust so long, Relives his life in me! I sent them to ----'s Magazine, with the six French lines on at the which they were founded at the top. ----'s _Magazine_ published only the six French lines--the only lines in my handwriting that ever got into print. And they date from the fifteenth century! Thus was my little song lost to the world, and for a time to me. But long, long afterwards, I found it again, where Mr. Longfellow once found a song of _his_: "in the heart of a friend"--surely the sweetest bourne that can ever be for any song! Little did I foresee that a day was not far off when real blood remembrance would carry me--but that is to come. * * * * * Poetry, friendship and love having failed, I sought for consolation in art, and frequented the National Gallery, Marlborough House (where the Vernon collection was), the British Museum, the Royal Academy, and other exhibitions. I prostrated myself before Titian, Rembrandt, Velasquez, Veronese, Da Vinci, Botticelli, Signorelli--the older the better; and tried my best to honestly feel the greatness I knew and know to be there; but for want of proper training I was unable to reach those heights, and, like most outsiders, admired them for the wrong things, for the very beauties they lack--such transcendent, ineffable beauties of feature, form, and expression as an outsider always looks for in an old master, and often persuades himself he finds there--and oftener still, _pretends_ he does!