Her right hand, as it lies Across the slender wrist of the left arm Upon her lap reposing, holds--but mark How slackly, for the absent mind permits 55 No firmer grasp--a little wild-flower, joined As in a posy, with a few pale ears Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped And in their common birthplace sheltered it ’Till they were plucked together; a blue flower 60 Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed; But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, (Her Father told her so) in youth’s gay dawn 65 Her Mother’s favourite; and the orphan Girl, In her own dawn--a dawn less gay and bright, Loves it, while there in solitary peace She sits, for that departed Mother’s sake. --Not from a source less sacred is derived 70 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air Of calm abstraction through the face diffused And the whole person. Words have something told More than the pencil can, and verily More than is needed, but the precious Art 75 Forgives their interference--Art divine, That both creates and fixes, in despite Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! That posture, and the look of filial love 80 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left Dearly united, might be swept away From this fair Portrait’s fleshly Archetype, Even by an innocent fancy’s slightest freak Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored 85 To their lost place, or meet in harmony So exquisite; but _here_ do they abide, Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, In visible quest of immortality, 90 Stretched forth with trembling hope?--In every realm, From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains, Thousands, in each variety of tongue That Europe knows, would echo this appeal; One above all, a Monk who waits on God 95 In the magnific Convent built of yore To sanctify the Escurial palace. He-- Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, A British Painter (eminent for truth In character,[2] and depth of feeling, shown 100 By labours that have touched the hearts of kings, And are endeared to simple cottagers)-- Came, in that service, to a glorious work,[3] Our Lord’s Last Supper, beautiful as when first The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian’s hand, 105 Graced the Refectory: and there, while both Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece, The hoary Father in the Stranger’s ear