THE WIDOW'S SON.
OF THE CARRACCI.
Aghast I stood—for death lay pictured there,
Just breathing into life—that fearful air
Of mute bewilderment, that seemed to speak
The trembling terrors of that death-like cheek.
The widow—who shall tell that bosom's joy,
As sense by sense gave back her treasured boy;
Or paint in words that fervour of the soul,
Breathing a heavenly radiance o'er the whole.
The tell-tale trace of agony once there,
Just melting into mute devotedness of air;
And thankfulness, and wonder, strove for place,
In that impassioned countenance of grace.
Just breathing into life—that fearful air
Of mute bewilderment, that seemed to speak
The trembling terrors of that death-like cheek.
The widow—who shall tell that bosom's joy,
As sense by sense gave back her treasured boy;
Or paint in words that fervour of the soul,
Breathing a heavenly radiance o'er the whole.
The tell-tale trace of agony once there,
Just melting into mute devotedness of air;
And thankfulness, and wonder, strove for place,
In that impassioned countenance of grace.
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