SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY FIVE MONTHS OLD. (October 10, 1836.)

My pretty, budding, breathing flower, Methinks, if I to-morrow Could manage, just for half-an-hour, Sir Joshua’s brush to borrow, I might immortalise a few Of all the myriad graces Which Time, while yet they all are new, With newer still replaces. I’d paint, my child, your deep blue eyes, Their quick and earnest flashes; I’d paint the fringe that round them lies, The fringe of long dark lashes; I’d draw with most fastidious care One eyebrow, then the other, And that fair forehead, broad and fair, The forehead of your mother. I’d oft retouch the dimpled cheek Where health in sunshine dances; And oft the pouting lips, where speak A thousand voiceless fancies; And the soft neck would keep me long, The neck, more smooth and snowy Than ever yet in schoolboy’s song Had Caroline or Chloe. Nor less on those twin rounded arms My new-found skill would linger, Nor less upon the rosy charms Of every tiny finger; Nor slight the small feet, little one, So prematurely clever That, though they neither walk nor run, I think they’d jump for ever. But then your odd endearing ways— What study ere could catch them? Your aimless gestures, endless plays— What canvass ere could match them? Your lively leap of merriment, Your murmur of petition, Your serious silence of content, Your laugh of recognition. Here were a puzzling toil, indeed, For Art’s most fine creations!— Grow on, sweet baby; we will need, To note your transformations, No picture of your form or face, Your waking or your sleeping, But that which Love shall daily trace, And trust to Memory’s keeping. Hereafter, when revolving years Have made you tall and twenty, And brought you blended hopes and fears, And sighs and slaves in plenty, May those who watch our little saint Among her tasks and duties, Feel all her virtues hard to paint, As now we deem her beauties.