Or, thou may’st seem to Fancy’s eye
  One borne by arms Divine;
One, whom on Earth a Saviour bless’d,
And on whose features left impress’d
  The Contact’s holy sign: 
A light, a halo, and a grace,
So pure th’ expression of that face.

Or, has the Painter’s skill alone
  Such grace and glory given? 
Clothed thee with attributes which seem
Creations of an angel’s dream,
  To raise the soul to Heaven?
No, as he found thee, he arrayed,
And Genius taught what God had made!

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM

OF THE LADY OF COUNSELLOR D. POLLOCK.

Joy to thee, Lady! many years of joy
  To thee—­and thine—­that springtide of the heart,
The bliss of virtuous love, without alloy. 
  And all that health and gladsome life impart. 
How gracefully hast thou thy task perform’d,
  The watchful tender mother, matchless wife;
All woman boasts—­thou hast indeed adorn’d—­
  Thine the high merit of an useful life. 
For ever cheerful, though the Tragic Muse[1]
  May call thee Sister, both in form and mind;
Thou do’st to all those envied charms transfuse,
  Which shine so highly temper’d and refined. 
Lady revered—­the sunbeam and the rose
  Are poor in beauty to sweet woman’s smiles: 
’Tis the bright sunset of life’s awful close,
  The Poet’s deathless wreath! a spell all grief beguiles!

[Footnote 1:  The Lady, to whom these lines are addressed has been greatly noticed for the strong resemblance she bears to Mrs. Siddons.]

THE HELIOTROPE.

There is a flower, whose modest eye
  Is turn’d with looks of light and love,
Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh. 
  Whene’er the sun is bright above.

Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil,
  Her fond idolatry is fled,
Her sighs no more their sweets exhale. 
  The loving eye is cold—­and dead.

Canst thou not trace a moral here,
  False flatterer of the prosperous hour? 
Let but an adverse cloud appear,
  And Thou art faithless, as the Flower!

SONNET.

ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY,

I HAD PREVIOUSLY KNOWN, CONFINED IN A MADHOUSE.

Sweet wreck of loveliness! alas, how soon
  The sad brief summer of thy joys hath fled: 
How sorrows Friendship for thy hapless doom,
  Thy beauty faded, and thy hopes all dead. 
Oh! ’twas that beauty’s power which first destroy’d
  Thy mind’s serenity; its charms but led
The faithless friend, that thy pure love enjoy’d,
  To tear the beauteous blossom from its bed. 
How reason shudders at thy frenzied air! 
  To see thee smile, with fancy’s dreams possess’d;
Or shrink, the frozen image of despair. 
  Or, love-enraptured, chant thy griefs to rest: 
Oh! cease that mournful voice, affliction’s child,
  My heart but bleeds to hear thy musings wild.