To Mary, on Receiving Her Picture

This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give,) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live. Here, I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave; The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips, which made me 'Beauty's' slave. Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire.…