(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.