This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

2.

Here I can trace the locks of gold,
Which round thy snowy forehead wave,
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
The lips which made me _Beauty's_ slave.

3.

Here I can trace--ah no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.

4.

Here I behold, its beauteous hue,
But where's the beam of soft desire?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.

5.

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,