TO THE AUTHOR’S PORTRAIT
GO, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Margaret, the Saintly Foundress, take thy place; And, if Time spare the colours for the grace Which to the work surpassing skill hath dealt, Thou, on thy rock reclined, though kingdoms melt And states be torn up by the roots, wilt seem To breathe in rural peace, to hear the stream, And think and feel as once the Poet felt. Whate’er thy fate, those features have not grown Unrecognised through many a household tear 10 More prompt, more glad, to fall than drops of dew By morning shed around a flower half-blown; Tears of delight, that testified how true To life thou art, and, in thy truth, how dear! 1830.