 | Poems |  |
347
SONNET.
[Behold, my son, thy father's portraiture]
Behold, my son, thy father's portraitureTraced by the fiery pencil of the sun,
Even in our Northern clime through science won
To rival art's fine touch, in hues obscure
But truthful, and from that smooth flattery pure
Through which the painter's work is oft misdone,—
To thee, whose manhood scarce hath yet begun,
A record of thy parent true and sure.—
Alas! on thy bright cheek and fair white brow
A sadder work will India's sun have wrought
Ere we behold the vessel's home-bound prow
That brings thee back, the darling of our thought.
Changed will thy form be;—better changed art thou
Through lore which faith hath learnt and God hath taught.
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