A Picture-Song

How may this little tablet feign
The features of a face,
Which o'er informs with loveliness,
Its proper share of space;
Or human hands on ivory,
Enable us to see
The charms, that all must wonder at,
Thou work of gods in thee!
But yet, methinks, that sunny smile
Familiar stories tells,
And I should know those placid eyes,
Two shaded crystal wells;
Nor can my soul, the limner's art
Attesting with a sigh,
Forget the blood that deck'd thy cheek,
As rosy clouds the sky.
They could not semble what thou art,
More excellent than fair,
As soft as sleep or pity is,
And pure as mountain-air;
But here are common, earthly hues,
To such an aspect wrought,
That none, save thine, can seem so like
The beautiful of thought.
The song I sing, thy likeness like, i
Is painful mimicry
Of something better, which is now
A memory to me,
Who have upon life's frozen sea
Arrived the icy spot,
Where man's magnetic feelings show
Their guiding task forgot.
The sportive hopes, that used to chase
Their shifting shadows on,
Like children playing in the sun,
Are gone — forever gone;
And on a careless, sullen peace,
My double-fronted mind, -
Like Janus when his gales were shut,
Looks forward and behind.
Apollo placed his harp, of old,
A while upon a stone,
Which has resounded since, when struck,
A breaking harp-string's tone;
And thus my heart, though wholly now,
From early softness free,
If touch'd, will yield the music yet,
It first received of thee.