(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)
This relative of mine
Was she seventy and nine
When she died?
By the canvas may be seen
How she looked at seventeen,--
As a bride.
Beneath a summer tree
As she sits, her reverie
Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste,--
What an arm! and what a waist
For an arm!
In bridal coronet,
Lace, ribbons, and _coquette
Falbala_;
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,
Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love,--
They are parting! Do they move?
Are they dumb?--
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem
To say, "Come."
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips?
Whisper me,
Sweet deity, in paint,
What canon says I mayn't
Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime!
When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,
Done their worst.
Her locks (as white as snow)
Once shamed the swarthy crow.
By-and-by,
That fowl's avenging sprite,
Set his cloven foot for spite
In her eye.
Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:--
Well I wot,
With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,--
Would she not?
Ah, perishable clay!
Her charms had dropt away
One by one.
But if she heaved a sigh
With a burthen, it was, "Thy
Will be done."
In travail, as in tears,
With the fardel of her years
Overprest,--
In mercy was she borne
Where the weary ones and worn
Are at rest.
I'm fain to meet you there,--
If as witching as you were,
Grandmamma!
This nether world agrees
That the better it must please
Grandpapa.