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To Mary, On Receiving Her Picture
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty`s mould,
The lips, which made me Beauty`s slave.
Here I can trace---ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter`s art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where`s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o`er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac`d thee next my heart.
She plac`d it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.
Thro` hours, thro` years, thro` time, `twill cheer---
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life`s last conflict `twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
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