n they wave their bells
In the low breathing of the twilight wind.--
One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue
The morning rose would sicken and grow pale,
'Till it was waked again by the soft breath
That steals in music from those lips of love.
Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee,
But in thy living beauty there is awe;
The sacredness of modesty enshrines
The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;--
I dare but worship what I must not love.
ON THE PORTRAIT
OF THE SON OF J.G. LAMBTON, ESQ., M.P.
BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE, P.R.A.
Beautiful Boy--thy heavenward thoughts
Are pictured in thine eyes,
Thou hast no taint of mortal birth,
Thy communing is not of earth,
Thy holy musings rise:
Like incense kindled from on high,
Ascending to its native sky.
And such a head might once have graced
The infant Samuel, when
Call'd by the favour of his God,