On His Having Presented the Author’s Picture to Her Father, May 1788

Thou, who hast given so many golden hours, That Genius consecrates by all her powers, Given them, the heart of failing age to warm, By the wish’d semblance of a daughter’s form, Accept the sole reward thy efforts sought, The acknowledg’d joy this generous present brought.

Creative efforts!—that with living hues Fix the illusive likeness, and diffuse O’er all the breathing form, and glowing face, With art’s last happiness, the nameless grace, Born of thy pencil, for the actual boon, Knew nor my youth’s fresh morn, or ripen’d noon, Long since, in a lov’d Father’s feeble breast, Life’s train of anxious wishes sunk to rest; Yet one remain’d, one fond wish linger’d still, For the pledged gift of thy consummate skill.

“O, my Belov’d!” how often would he say, “Fast as my worn existence fleets away, “Life’s prov’d uncertainty to sprightly health, “May rob my soul of all its earthly wealth; “Childless I yet to my late grave may go, “Where only tears for thee would cease to flow: “‘Twere comfort still to think, should Heaven ordain “My hopeless years to prove so sharp a pain, “Something might yet to these dim eyes appear, “That should that look, that smile of kindness wear, “With which thou com’st to bless each lingering day, “Of feeble age, in its perceiv’d decay.”

The shades of yesternight were softly drawn Wide o’er these blooming fields, and circling lawn, And the dear Full of Days his pillow prest In the soft slumber of an infant’s rest; Two wond’rous Youths, who strike the Muse’s lyre, Ere manhood’s dawn, with all a poet’s fire, Sat by thy friend, to speed the evening hours By culling florets from Aonian bowers; When gladly, through the swift-unfolding door, The promis’d gift a smiling servant bore. With curious eyes the youthful Lyrists hail, The heav’d dismission of each tardy nail, Till to their sight the speaking canvass shone, And made the magic of thy pencil known. At early day to the lov’d couch I creep, Chasing with lenient voice a Father’s sleep, Then near its pillow draw his hearts desire, Mark his wan cheek faint tinged with pleasure’s fire, Enjoy his warm apostrophe to thee, And his now seldom tear of extacy.

O! generous ROMNEY! whose expansive heart Glows the blest rival of thy perfect art, Thy genius is a Sun, that now serene Shines on the surface of a wintry scene; Pale waning Life smiles in its glad’ning rays, And to their light a Bramin’s homage pays.