Gifford

This was a magician's cell:Beauty's self obeyed his spell!When the air was gloom without,Grace and Color played aboutYonder easel. Many a sprite,Golden-winged with heaven's light,Let the upper skies go drear,Spreading his rare plumage here.

Skyward now,—alas the day!—See the truant Ariels play!Cloud and air with light they fill,Wandering at idle will,Nor (with half their tasks undone)Stay to mourn the master gone.Only in this hollow room.Now, the stillness and the gloom.

When the long nights return, and find us metWhere he was wont to meet us, and the flameOn the deep hearth-stone gladdens as of old,And there is cheer, as ever in that place,How shall our utmost nearing close the gapKnown, but till then scarce measured? Or what lightOf cheer for us, his gracious presence gone,His speech delayed, till none shall fail to missThat halting voice, yet sure, speaking, it seemedThe one apt word? For well the painter knewArt's alchemy and law; her noblenessWas in his soul, her wisdom in his speech,And loyalty was housed in that true heart,Gentle yet strong, and yielding not one whitOf right or purpose. Now, not more afarThe light of last year's Yule fire than the smileOf Gifford, nor more irreclaimableIts vapor mingled with the wintry air.

1880