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SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.
Thy hand is cold!—thy colors weave
Their graceful lines no more!
Yet, painter of each lovely face
That lit our island shore,
These faces from the canvass shine,
And haunt us still with thee and thine.
Hero and beauty—all who flung
Their spell around their day—
Owe to thy pencil memories
That will not pass away;
The past—the present seems to be,
Thanks to thy art and thee!
