A FACE.

IF one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pale gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss

And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:

But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently

Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky

(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye,

Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

A LIKENESS.

A LIKENESS.

SOME people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup:
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,

Asks, "Who was the lady, I wonder?"

66

""T is a daub John bought at a sale,"

Quoth the wife, - looks black as thunder:

"What a shade beneath her nose!

Snuff-taking, I suppose,"

Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail.

Or else, there's no wife in the case,
But the portrait's queen of the place,
Alone mid the other spoils

Of youth, - masks, gloves, and foils,

And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine,