LINES

On the Same Picture being Removed to make
Place for a Portrait of a Lady by Titian.

(By Mary Lamb. 1805)

Who art thou, fair one, who usurp’st the place
Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? 
Come, fair and pretty, tell to me,
Who, in thy life-time, thou might’st be. 
Thou pretty art and fair,
But with the lady Blanch thou never must compare. 
No need for Blanch her history to tell;
Whoever saw her face, they there did read it well. 
But when I look on thee, I only know
There lived a pretty maid some hundred years ago.

LINES

        On the Celebrated Picture by Lionardo da Vinci,
        called The Virgin of the Rocks.

        (? 1805)

        While young John runs to greet
        The greater Infant’s feet,
        The Mother standing by, with trembling passion
        Of devout admiration,
        Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;
        Nor knows as yet the full event
        Of those so low beginnings,
        From whence we date our winnings,
        But wonders at the intent
        Of those new rites, and what that strange child-worship meant. 
        But at her side
        An angel doth abide,
        With such a perfect joy
        As no dim doubts alloy,
        An intuition,
        A glory, an amenity,
        Passing the dark condition
        Of blind humanity,
        As if he surely knew
        All the blest wonders should ensue,
        Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
        And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

ON THE SAME

(By Mary Lamb. 1805)

Maternal lady with the virgin grace,
Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure,
And of a virgin pure. 
Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face
Men look upon, they wish to be
A Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee.

SONNETS

TO MISS KELLY

You are not, Kelly, of the common strain,
That stoop their pride and female honor down
To please that many-headed beast the town,
And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain;
By fortune thrown amid the actor’s train,
You keep your native dignity of thought;
The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
As tributes due unto your natural vein. 
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace
Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow;
Your smiles are winds whose ways we cannot trace,
That vanish and return we know not how—­
And please the better from a pensive face,
And thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.

        ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KENSINGTON GARDEN