THE PORTRAIT 65
On his harp I sink in slumbers, Dreaming still of dulcet numbers !
- ' This is all — away — away —
You have made me waste the day.
How 1 've chatter'd I prating crow 45
Never yet did chatter so."
THE PORTKAIT. ODE XVI. Thou, whose soft and rosy hues Mimic form and soul infuse, Best of painters, come portray The lovely maid that 's far away. Far away, my soul I thou art, *
But I 've thy beauties all by heart. Paint her jetty ringlets playing. Silky locks, like tendrils straying ; And, if painting hath the skill To make the spicy balm distil, 10
Let every little lock exhale A sigh of perfume on the gale. Where her tresses' curly flow Darkles o'er the brow of snow, Let her forehead beam to light, is
Burnish'd as the iΛ^ory bright. Let her eyebrows smoothly rise In jetty arches o'er her eyes. Each, a crescent gently gliding. Just commingling, just dividing. 20
But hast thou any sparkles warm. The lightning of her eyes to form ? Let them effuse the azure rays That in Minerva's glances blaze,
