And safe may he bear thee through perils and changes
Besetting his course, who so widely would roam,
Then speed thy return from the land of the Ganges,
From pagod and painim! Dear William, come home.
Come home, where the eyes beam through tears to behold thee;
Where arms open wide to receive thee will be;
And promise, while yet to the heart they infold thee
To be, never after, our William at sea!
[MY PORTRAIT.]
Well, thou art done, cold, speechless thing;
Yet, in thy silence, with the power
A crowd of feelings deep to bring
Unknown until the present hour.
But wherefore done, to life so true?
Not human pride, nor vanity
Could ask the artist hand to do,
And show the world a deed like thee.
And was it simple most, or kind
To have upon the canvass cast
My semblance, thus to leave behind
My shadow, when myself am past?
I know not if another eye
Will ever weep beside thee, more
Than mine does now, I know not why—
It never dropped such tears before.
I view thee as a piece, composed
To last, when I have passed from sight—
When time and earth to me are closed,
To be in time and earthly light.