TO MY GRANDMOTHER. (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.) HIS relative of mine THI Was she seventy and nine When she died? By the canvas may be seen, How she look'd at seventeen, As a bride. Beneath a summer tree Her maiden reverie Has a charm ; Her ringlets are in taste; What an arm! and what a waist For an arm! TO MY GRANDMOTHER. With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Lace, farthingale, and gay Falbala, -Were Romney's limning true, What a lucky dog were you, Grandpapa! Her lips are sweet as love; They are parting! Do they move? Are they dumb? Her eyes are blue, and beam Beseechingly, and seem To say, "Come." What funny fancy slips From between these cherry lips? Whisper me, Sweet deity in paint, What canon says I mayn't Marry thee? H TO MY GRANDMOTHER. That good-for-nothing Time Has a confidence sublime! When I first Saw this lady, in my youth, Her winters had, forsooth, Done their worst. Her locks, as white as snow, Once shamed the swarthy crow; By and by, That fowl's avenging sprite Set his cruel foot for spite Near her eye. Her rounded form was lean, And her silk was bombazine :— Well I wot, With her needles would she sit, And for hours would she knit, Would she not? |