 | [Poems by Smith in] The Echo |  |
914
SONNET IX.
To Mr. JOHN TRUMBULL.
Trumbull! to thee, with hesitating hand,
I wake the tremulously-breathing lyre;
Fearful that Age, altho the Muse inspire,
Should weep that Modesty had lost command.
I wake the tremulously-breathing lyre;
Fearful that Age, altho the Muse inspire,
Should weep that Modesty had lost command.
Tis not, alone, that energy divine
Lives o'er the canvass, as thy pencil moves:
That tint perfects the exquisite design,
And life is present; that my soul approves:
Lives o'er the canvass, as thy pencil moves:
That tint perfects the exquisite design,
And life is present; that my soul approves:
But, that thy Spirit brooding o'er the immense
Of unknown Beauty, to existence gave
The plan, where Wisdom, Liberty, and Sense,
The high-soul'd Patriot, and the Warrior brave,
Live, with the appropriate character of face,
In all the pencil's manners-painting grace.
Of unknown Beauty, to existence gave
The plan, where Wisdom, Liberty, and Sense,
The high-soul'd Patriot, and the Warrior brave,
Live, with the appropriate character of face,
In all the pencil's manners-painting grace.
ELLA.
| [Poems by Smith in] The Echo | |