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THE COTTAGE PICTURE. 



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[In a ramble through Shropshire, I was driven by a shower to take refuge in a cottage, 

 where was a beautiful, though somewhat faded, portrait of a lady, dressed in the fashion 

 of a century ago. The cottage dame could neither give me its name or date ; all that she 

 knew was, " That it had belonged to some old hall many years ago."] 



THERE is a stately beauty in thy brow 



There is a quiet pride in that dark eye : 

 No daughter of a peasant race wert them, 



No rose, in hamlet reared, unseen to die ; 

 And on thy lip there sits a shade of scorn, 

 As at this mean abode, thou fair and gentle born ! 



Wert thou not cradled in some ancient hall, 

 Where dark escutcheons roof and arch emboss, 



And faded banners shiver on the wall, 

 And the grim pictured champions of the Cross 



Looked down austerely on thy childish play, 



Nor deemed their haughty name could with thy smile decay ? 



What wonder then, so closely circled round 



With fair memorials of a noble line, 

 That pride its chain within thy bosom wound, 



And stamped its signet on those lips of thine : 

 How might they speak a lesson sad and strange, 

 And tell the young and fair how pomp and glory change. 



Thine eye shone bright amid the festive throng, 

 When lutes were tuned to mirth, and hearts to joy, 



When swan-like beauty swept the dance along 

 Nor dreamed that time her lustre could destroy. 



Thine was a mother's smile a lover's vow, 



Flattered caressed beloved how changed thy fortunes now ! 



Yes, here amid a homely, simple race, 

 Who never learned to prize the painter's skill, 



Mournful it is to meet thy speaking face, 

 Made by the flashing firelight brighter still ; 



Mournful and food for many thoughtful tears, 



To see thy haughty smile and think of former years! 

 ' 



