On the Fly-Leaf of Maclise's Portrait Gallery
Here, painted by a Master's hand,
Is many a lovely dame,
Amidst the writers of the land
Who gained the greatest fame.
But sure there is not one whose pen
Was half so apt as thine
To catch the ears of listening men,
Or wake the Sacred Nine.
None saw reflected in her glass
A more distinguished face:
But thou art born too late, alas!
To take thy proper place.
The pencil of Maclise, my dear,
Thy face will ne'er portray,
Nor will the facts of thy career
Be told by Bates, B.A.
Yet do not hence a pretext seize
To blame the cruel Fates:
If they denied thee to Maclise,
They rescued thee from Bates.