On Seeing a Lady Sit for Her Portrait

The basket upon which thy fingers bend,
Thou mayst remember in my Tuscan hall,
When the glad children, gazing on a friend,
From heedless arm let high-piled peaches fall
On the white marble, splashing to the wall.
Oh, were they present at this later hour!
Could they behold the form whole realms admire,
Lean with such grace o'er cane and leaf and flower,
Happy once more would they salute their sire,
Nor wonder that her name still rests upon his lyre.