SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY

FIVE MONTHS OLD.

My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks, if I to-morrow

Could manage, just for half an hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,

I might immortalize a few

Of all the myriad graces

Which Time, while yet they all are new, With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes;
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw with most fastidious care
One eyebrow, then the other,
And that fair forehead, broad and fair,
The forehead of your mother.

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek
Where health in sunshine dances;
And oft the pouting lips, where speak
A thousand voiceless fancies;
And the soft neck would keep me long,

The neck, more smooth and snowy

Than ever yet in schoolboy's song

Had Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms

Of every tiny finger;

Nor slight the small feet, little one,

So prematurely clever

That, though they neither walk nor run, I think they'd jump forever.

But then your odd endearing ways—
What study e'er could catch them?
Your aimless gestures, endless plays-
What canvas e'er could match them ?
Your lively leap of merriment,
Your murmur of petition,
Your serious silence of content,
Your laugh of recognition.

Here were a puzzling toil, indeed,
For Art's most fine creations!-
Grow on, sweet baby; we will need,
To note your transformations,
No picture of your form or face,
Your waking or your sleeping,

But that which Love shall daily trace,
And trust to Memory's keeping.

Hereafter, when revolving years

Have made you tall and twenty, And brought you blended hopes and fears, And sighs and slaves in plenty, May those who watch our little saint Among her tasks and duties, Feel all her virtues hard to paint,

As now we deem her beauties.

(ОСТОВЕР 10, 1836.)

SONNET

TO R. C. HILDYARD.

PROFIT and praise attend you, wheresoe'er

You charm the country, or amaze the town, With flow of argument, and flow of gown! I will not here forget you; but will spare, Amidst my tranquil joys, a wish and prayer

That you may win quick riches, high renown,— Hereafter, better gifts-more like my own! O kindest found, when kindness was most rare! When I recall the days of hope and fear

In which I first dared call my Helen mine, Or the sweet hour when first upon my ear Broke the shrill cry of little Adeline,

The memory of your friendship, Friend sincere, Among such memories grateful I entwine.

(OCTOBER 15, 1836.)

19

SONNET

TO B. J. M. P.

A SAD return, my Brother, thine must be
To thy void home! loosed is the silver chain,
The golden bowl is broken!-not again
Love's fond caress and Childhood's earnest glee
After dull toil may greet and gladden thee.

How shall we bid the mourner not complain, Not murmur, not despond?—..h me, most vain Is sympathy, how soft soe'er the key,

And argument, how grave soe'er the tone! In our still chambers, on our bended knees, Pray we for better help! There is but One Who shall from sorrow, as from sin, release:

God send thee peace, my Brother! God alone Guideth the fountains of eternal peace.

(OCTOBER 19, 1836.)