Poems (Howard)/My Pictures
For works with similar titles, see My Pictures.
My Pictures
They are not set in frames of gold, Nor painted by the masters old, Whose names are celebrated For deft and true artistic touch; But still I prize them quite as much, And gaze on them elated.
Nor were these treasures handed me An heirloom from the family tree, And rich in many a blessing From pious ancestry—nor were They purchased by a connoisseur Rare cultured taste possessing.
But in my chamber, while I slept, Some magic artist softly stepped From distant realms Elysian, And wrought upon my window-pane Such wondrous pictures, that I fain Believe I see a vision.
His cunning hand disdained the light, And fashioned in the gloom of night, Such strange designs—I wonder If, 'twixt me and the heavenly land, That shadowy veil by his command Has not been rent asunder.
While I in admiration stand, And to that viewless master-hand My silent homage tender, The morning sunlight, glancing through, Makes one kaleidoscopic view Of rich prismatic splendor.
I fancy that I see the wall Of jasper, amethyst, and all Celestial gems combining, That round the New Jerusalem Gleams like a royal diadem In heavenly luster shining.
A great white throne I now behold, The King thereon, the streets of gold, And waiting seraphs kneeling; The open pearly gates disclose The ever-living stream that flows Beneath the trees of healing.
And thus do busy fancies throng My curious brain, and make me long To know that great Designer, Who thus works out his secret plan, So far exceeding skill of man, And infinitely finer.
The sun looks down with ardent ray, And soon, alas! will melt away My treasures evanescent; But they have not been wrought in vain, For memory of them shall remain A joy forever present.
And I shall see the counterpart Of that blest scene that won my heart For one delightful hour; The world is wide—I look abroad "Through Nature up to Nature's God." And own his wondrous power.