MY PICTURES.
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Little care I who the painter, How obscure a name he bore;Nor, when some have named Velasques Did I value it the more.
As it is, I would not give it For the rarest piece of art;It has dwelt with me, and listened To the secrets of my heart.
Many a time, when to my garret, Weary, I returned at night,It has seemed to look a welcome That has made my poor room bright.
Many a time, when ill and sleepless, I have watched the quivering gleamOf my lamp upon that picture, Till it faded in my dream.
When dark days have come, and friendship Worthless seemed, and life in vain,That bright friendly smile has sent me Boldly to my task again.
Sometimes when hard need has pressed ma To bow down where I despise,I have read stern words of counsel In those sad, reproachful eyes.
Nothing that my brain imagined, Or my weary hand has wrought,But it watched the dim Idea Spring forth into armed Thought.
