TO AN ARTIST,

Who requested the writer's opinion of a Pencil Sketch of a very Lovely Woman.

The sketch is somewhat happy of the maid;
But where's the dark ethereal eye—
The lip of innocence—the sigh,
That breathes like spring o'er roses just betrayed?
And where the smile, the bright bewitching smile
That lights her youthful cheek with pleasure,
Where health and beauty hoard their treasure,
And all is loveliness unmixed with guile?
The spirit of the bloomy months is she,
Surrounded by the laughing hours:
Her very foot-prints glow with flowers!
And dared'st thou then successful hope to be?
Presumptuous man! thy boasted art how vain!
Too dull thy daring pencil's light
To shadow forth the vision bright,
Which flowed from Jove's own hand without a stain.
What mortal skill can paint her wond'rous eye
Or catch the smile of woman's face,
When all the virtues seem to grace
Its beams with something of divinity?
None but Apollo should the task essay;
To him alone the pow'r is given
To blend the radiant hues of heaven,
And in the look the very soul portray;
Then hold, proud Artist! 'tis the God's command;
Eugenia's face requires thy master's hand!