University of Virginia Library

FRAGMENT XXXIX. LOVE'S PICTURE.

Hither, Love, thy wild wing bend,
Or on thy mother's dove descend;
Or let some breeze thy light form bear,
Or mount some “courser of the air;”
Or float thee on a lover's sigh,
But hither, Love, oh! hither fly:
And come while yet the wish is warm,
To portrait true, thy changeful form;
Yes, come, with all thy magic arts,
“Quips, cranks, and smiles,” bows, arrows, darts;
Approach thee cap-a-pee in arms,
Muster ten thousand strong in charms;
Then (if thou canst) repose thy pinion,
And give me one good sitting, minion.
Shake not at me those golden locks,
Thy pow'r my dauntless spirit mocks;
Nay, think not by that look to bind me;
I'll paint thee, rascal, as I find thee.
Yes, thou shalt have a seraph's face,
A childish air, an infant grace,
A bashful blush, a movement shy,
A timid glance, a downcast eye,
A frolic gait, a playful mien,
A cherub's smile, a brow serene;
Such is thy outward form, I know;
“But that within, which passeth shew,”
And thou wouldst slily keep perdû,
I'll paint in colours strong and true.
So now have at thee, trait'rous boy!
Thou bitter sweet, thou painful joy;
Thou thing compos'd of contradictions,
Of blessings and of maledictions,
Of vivid hopes, of sombre doubts,
Of sports and joys, of frowns and pouts,
Of gay delight, of anxious care,
Of thrilling bliss, of wild despair,
Of confidence, of dark suspicion,
Of tyranny, of meek submission,
Of sympathy, of jealous fire,
Of tenderness, of wrathful ire,
Of certainties, of mad'ning fears,
Of melting smiles, of treach'rous tears,
Of vestal blush, of roguish eye,
Of speaking look, of stifled sigh,
Of present joy, of future woe,
Of chill disdain, of genial glow,
Of simple air, of practis'd guile,
Of candid words, of hidden wile;
Thou imp, thou seraph, good or evil,
Thou ofttimes angel, ofttimes devil;
Thou all on earth we most should fear,
Thou all on earth we hold most dear;
Whom now we trust, whom now we doubt,
Whom none can live with, nor without,
Thou woe, fear, grief, thou bliss, hope, joy,
Thou—oh! thou too delightful boy!
Go, go, I dare not longer gaze,
For well I know thy wily ways,
And that while I with critic stricture
Thus coldly finish off thy picture,
Thou haply point'st thy keenest dart
At the simple painter's heart.