Vandyke consulting his Mistress on a Picture in Cooke's Exhibition

Beautiful Art! my worship is for thee—
The heart's entire devotion. When I look
Upon thy radiant wonders, every pulse
Is thrill'd as in the presence of divinity.
Pictures, bright pictures, oh! they are to me
A world for thought to revel in. I love
To give a history to every face, to think—
As I thought with the painter—as I knew
What his high communing had been.


Yes, he is seeking in those eyes
His light, his fame, his own heart prize!
How vain to that idolater
Is this world's praise, if wanting her
Sweet seal, a smile. His lofty brow
Has almost woman's softness now;
And that dark cheek, and darker eye
Where lightning-gleams of genius lie,
And that so haughty lip's proud curl,
Are mild before that fair young girl,
As if that delicate slight hand
Had magic like a fairy wand,
As if those deep blue eyes had power
Like sunshine in a stormy hour.
    It was an almost childish face,
Yet in its first soft spring of grace—
A rosebud, ere the sun has set
Which saw it bloom; a violet,
Or ere the tears of morning melt—
The first dew-fall it ever felt.
Yet was it pale, as with excess
Of overmuch fond tenderness.
Her mouth—a very mine of bliss,
A blossom fresh from the bee's kiss,—
Was near to his, as if to steal
But one breath from him was to feel
The air of paradise;—her arm
Was round his neck;—and oh the charm
Of the delicious drooping lid
Which half her soft eye's lustre hid!
Ah, Woman has no look so sweet
As that, when, half afraid to meet
The look she loves, blushes betray
All the suppressed glance would say.
'Tis a sweet picture! But what shade
Would not be lovely, which pourtrayed
Genius and love, the union bright
Of meteor-flash and soft moonlight?