Breathed out these words:--“Here daily do we sit, Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 110 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze Upon this solemn Company unmoved By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years, 115 Until I cannot but believe that they-- They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows.”[4] So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs Melting away within him like a dream Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: 120 And I, grown old, but in a happier land, Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned In thy calm presence those heart-moving words: Words that can soothe, more than they agitate; Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 125 Into Bethesda’s pool, with healing virtue Informs the fountain in the human breast Which[5] by the visitation was disturbed. ----But why this stealing tear? Companion mute, On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well, 130 My Song’s Inspirer, once again farewell![6] [1] Jemima Quillinan, the eldest daughter of Edward Quillinan, Wordsworth’s future son-in-law. The portrait was taken when she was a school-girl, and while her father resided at Oporto.--ED. [2] Wilkie. See the Fenwick note.--ED. [3] 1837. Left not unvisited a glorious work, 1835. [4] “When Wilkie was in the Escurial, looking at Titian’s famous picture of the Last Supper, in the Refectory there, an old Jeronymite said to him: ‘I have sate daily in sight of that picture for now nearly three score years; during that time my companions have dropt off, one after another--all who were my seniors, all who were my contemporaries, and many, or most of those who were younger than myself; more than one generation has passed away, and there the figures in the picture have remained unchanged! I look at them till I sometimes think that they are the realities, and we but shadows!’ I wish I could record the name of the monk by whom that natural feeling was so feelingly and strikingly expressed. The shows of things are better than themselves, says the author of the tragedy of Nero, whose name also I could wish had been forthcoming; and the classical reader will remember the lines of Sophocles: ὁρῶ γὰρ ἡμᾶς οὐδὲν ὄντας ἄλλο, πλὴν εἴδωλ’, ὅσοιπερ ζῶμεν, ὴ κούφην σκιάν. These are reflections which should make us think Of that same time when no more change shall be But steadfast rest of all things, firmly stayd Upon the pillars of Eternity, That is contrain to mutability; For all that moveth doth in change delight: But henceforth all shall rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabaoth hight, O that great Sabaoth God grant me that Sabbath’s sight. SPENSER.”