WRITTEN UNDER THE ENGRAVING OF A PORTRAIT
OF RAFAEL, PAINTED BY HIMSELF WHEN HE
RAFAEL! It must be he; we only miss
Something which manhood gave him, and the fair;
A look still sweeter and more thoughtful air;
But for the rest, 'tis every feature his,
The oval cheek, clear eye, mouth made to kiss,
Terse lightsome chin, and flush of gentle hair
Clipped ere it loitered into ringlets there,—
The beauty, the benignity, the bliss.
How sweetly sure he looks! how unforlorn!
There is but one such visage at a time;
'Tis like the budding of an age new born,
Remembered youth, the cuckoo in the prime,
The maid's first kiss, or any other thing
Most lovely, and alone, and promising.
WRITTEN ON A PIECE OF PAPER WHICH HAPPENED TO BE HEADED WITH A LONG LIST OF TREES.
THERE, Bess, your namesake held not sceptred hand
Under a canopy, so full and bright,
Not even that which Spenser hung with light,
And little shouldering angels made expand,
When she sat arbitress of fairy-land.
Fancy a sun o'er head, to make the sight
Warm outwards, and a bank with daisies white,
And you're a rural queen, finished and fanned.
And now what sylvan homage would it please
Your Leafyship to have? bracelets of berries,
Feathers of jays, or tassels made of cherries,
Strawberries and milk, or pippins crisp to squeeze?
No, says your smile,-but two things richer far,
A verse, and a staunch friend;—and here they are.
ON THE DEGRADING NOTIONS OF DEITY.
WHAT Wonder, Percy, that with jealous rage
Men should defame the kindly and the wise,
When in the midst of the all-beauteous skies,
And all this lovely world, that should engage
Their mutual search for the old golden age,
They seat a phantom, swelled into grim size
Out of their own passions and bigotries,
And then, for fear, proclaim it meek and sage!
And this they call a light and a revealing!
Wise as the clown, who plodding home at night In autumn, turns at call of fancied elf,
And sees upon the fog, with ghastly feeling,
A giant shadow in it's imminent might,
Which his own lanthorn throws
YET, Percy, not for this, should he whose eye
Sees loveliness, and the unselfish joy
Of justice, turn him, like a peevish boy,
At hindrances and thwartings; and deny
Wisdom's divinest privilege, constancy;
That which most proves him free from the alloy
Of useless earth,-least prone to the decoy
That clamours down weak pinions from the sky.
The Spirit of Beauty, though by solemn quires
Hourly blasphemed, stoops not from it's calm end,
And forward breathing love, but ever on
Rolls the round day, and calls the starry fires
To their glad watch. Therefore, high-hearted friend,
Be still with thine own task in unison.
HENRY ROBERTSON, JOHN GATTIE, AND VINCENT NOVELLO,
NOT KEEPING THEIR APPOINTED HOUR.
HARRY, my friend, who full of tasteful glee,
Have music all about you, heart and lips;
And, John, whose voice is like a rill that slips
Over the sunny pebbles breathingly;
And, Vincent, you, who with like mastery
Can chace the notes with fluttering finger-tips,
Like fairies down a hill hurrying their trips,
Or sway the organ with firm royalty;
Why stop ye on the road? The day, 'tis true,
Shews us as in a diamond all things clear,
And makes the hill-surmounting eye rejoice,
Doubling the earthly green, the heavenly blue;
But come, complete the charm of such a sphere,
And give the beauty of the day a voice.
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