Of cunning artist, can express.  In vain,
      Alas! in vain! 
                    Come hither, Painter; come,
      Take up once more thine instruments—­thy brush
      And palette—­if thy haughty art be, as thou say’st,
      Omnipotent, and if thy hand can dare
      To wield creative power.  Renew thy toil,
      And let my memory, vivified by love,
      Which Death’s cold separation has but warmed
      And rendered sacred dictate to thy skill,
      And guide thy pencil.  From the jetty hair
      Take off that gaudy lustre that but mocks
      The true original; and let the dry,
      Soft, gentle-turning locks, appear instead. 
      What though to fashion’s garish eye they seem
      Untutored and ungainly? still to me,
      Than folly’s foppish head-gear, lovelier far
      Are they, because bespeaking mental toil,
      Labor assiduous, through the golden days
      (Golden if so improved) of guileless youth,
      Unwearied mining in the precious stores
      Of classic lore—­and better, nobler still,
      In God’s own holy writ.  And scatter here
      And there a thread of grey, to mark the grief
      That prematurely checked the bounding flow
      Of the warm current in his veins, and shed
      An early twilight o’er so bright a dawn. 
      No wrinkle sits upon that brow!—­and thus
      It ever was.  The angry strife and cares
      Of avaricious miser did not leave
      Their base memorial on so fair a page. 
      The eyebrows next draw closer down, and throw
      A softening shade o’er the mild orbs below. 
      Let the full eyelid, drooping, half conceal
      The back-retiring eye; and point to earth
      The long brown lashes that bespeak a soul
      Like his who said, “I am not worthy, Lord!”
      From underneath these lowly turning lids,
      Let not shine forth the gaily sparkling light
      Which dazzles oft, and oft deceives; nor yet
      The dull unmeaning lustre that can gaze
      Alike on all the world.  But paint an eye
      In whose half-hidden, steady light I read
      A truth-inquiring mind; a fancy, too,
      That could array in sweet poetic garb
      The truth he found; while on his artless harp
      He touched the gentlest feelings, which the blaze
      Of winter’s hearth warms in the homely heart. 
      And oh! recall the look of faith sincere,
      With which that eye would scrutinize the page
      That tells us of offended God appeased
      By awful sacrifice upon the cross
      Of Calvary—­that bids us leave a world
      Immersed in darkness and in death, and seek
      A better country.  Ah! how oft that eye
      Would turn on me, with pity’s tenderest look,
      And, only half-upbraiding, bid me flee
      From the vain idols of my boyish heart!