Sonnet Addressed to Mrs. Cobbold of Ipswich
Blest be the hand that Heaven has taught to trace
So well each feature in that dearest face;
So well her form to filial fondness gives,
'Tis Inspiration—and the canvass lives.
Blest be the bright—the intellectual ray,
That bade thy pencil e'en her mind pourtray;
Place in her hand Religion's hallow'd choice,
And precepts pure in Britain's infant voice.
Blest, truly blest, be Nature's kindest heart,
That thus in unison with the powers of art,
Has saved from Fate and Time a copy fair,
Has given to my wishes all that Heaven could spare.
O Cobbold! while the grateful glow is mine,
My parent's smile celestial shall be thine.
So well each feature in that dearest face;
So well her form to filial fondness gives,
'Tis Inspiration—and the canvass lives.
Blest be the bright—the intellectual ray,
That bade thy pencil e'en her mind pourtray;
Place in her hand Religion's hallow'd choice,
And precepts pure in Britain's infant voice.
Blest, truly blest, be Nature's kindest heart,
That thus in unison with the powers of art,
Has saved from Fate and Time a copy fair,
Has given to my wishes all that Heaven could spare.
O Cobbold! while the grateful glow is mine,
My parent's smile celestial shall be thine.
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