To catch the thought, by painting's spell...

To catch the thought, by painting's spell, Howe'er remote, howe'er refined, And o'er the kindling canvas tell The silent story of the mind;

O'er nature's form to glance the eye, And fix, by mimic light and shade, Her morning tinges ere they fly, Her evening blushes, ere they fade;

Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers, The gift, by which her art divine Above all others proudly towers,— And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.

And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace, In almost living truth exprest, This bright memorial of a face On which her eye delights to rest;

While o'er the lovely look serene, The smile of peace, the bloom of youth, The cheek, that blushes to be seen. The eye that tells the bosom's truth;

While o'er each line, so brightly true, Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove, Blessing the touch whose various hue Thus brings to mind the form we love;

We feel the magic of thy art, And own it with a zest, a zeal, A pleasure, nearer to the heart Than critic taste can ever feel.