d.

Fair as the hues of heaven, the innocent
Lay like a phantom born of some mild soul;
A drop, for it had wept
A moment ere it slept,
O'er its light vermil cheek was seen to roll
And its young guardian's heart drank beauty as he leant.

That nameless wish to nought but genius known.--
Indefinite--but in each fibre felt,
Whispered. The boy elate
Burned to perpetuate
The full pervasive bliss; enrapt he knelt--
Thou saw'st--a pencil's by--and infant West's thine own.

Soon the plumed savage, from his leafy home
Emerging, saw and loved the gifted child,
And soon, beneath their care,
His hands the tints prepare,
That strain their shapely limbs, in grandeur wild
As thro' their arching woods, the desert warriors roam. [FN#21]

[FN#21] Sir Benjamin West, when a child, was presented with the
primitive colours by an Indian. See Galt's Life of West.

Please he repaid their plans, nor those alone;
Sped by his strength the painted arrow flew;
And oft the soaring bird
For shape, or hue preferred,
To make a model for his art he knew
While sovereign Nature saw--and smiled upon her throne.

Bold Science, who earth's caverned depths explores,
And soars triumphant 'mid new worlds of light,--
Lays bare the heaving heart [FN#22]
Nor suffers life to part--
Lures the red lightning from its stormy height--
Oft, goddess kneels to thee to save his precious stores.

[FN#22] An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in
which the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.

The rough-browed warrior on the midnight deck
While stealing softness thro' his pulses glides,
By the moon's pensive rays
Regards with lengthened gaze,
The pictured form his scarry bosom hides
By day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.

When fate has torn from the fond mother's arms
The tender hope her bosom fed, to thee
She flies;--and ere decay
Can mar his beauteous prey
Her arching eyes, amid their grief, can see,
Still dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.

The generous youth who, fired by love of fame,
A victim at her bloody altars fell;
To the beloved ones reft,
By aid of thee, has left
His form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tell
How fair was he on earth who left it for a name.

The patriot--here a moment let my strain