She bends her lover’s rest above,
Thoughtful with gentle hopes and fears,
And that unutterable love
Which never yet spoke but in tears;
She would not that those tears should fall
Upon the cherished sleeper’s face,
She turns, and sees upon the wall
Its imaged shade, its perfect grace;
With eager hand she marked each line,
The shadowy brow, the arching head,
Till some creative power divine,
Love’s likeness o’er love’s shadow spread:
Since then, what passion and what power
Has dwelt upon the painter’s art;
How has it soothed the absent hour,
With looks that wear life’s loveliest part.
Oh, painter of our English isle,
Whose name is now upon my line,
Who gave to beauty’s blush and smile
All that could make them most divine,
The fair Ionian’s ancient claim
Was never paid, till paid by thee,
And thou didst honour to her name,
By showing what her sex can be.
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