Lines on the Portrait of the late Dr. Delany, U. S. N.

A PICTURE sketched of light and shadeAll softly by the sun;The outline, form, how perfect made;His features, brow, grandly portrayed,And insignias of rank and grade,The highest honors won.

When summoned to the bed of pain,Inspiring, rich his zealThe sufferer's confidence to gain;And tenderly—should such complain—The cure, the cause, gently explain,With art and skill reveal.

I see him now; his courtly grace,His sympathetic wayAnd voice. Delany's soul-lit faceA gifted artist scarce could trace—Imagination may replace,As thus it does to-day.

Departed dead! can this be so,A shadow only left?Alas! that sorrow, grief, and woeMust follow wheresoe'er we go;We must not weep, O! no, no, no!Though of his smile bereft.

O! plant the myrtle on his grave,The lost, beloved, renowned!There, too, the evergreen should wave,While winds chant requiems to the brave;With tears the spot shall memory lave,The blessed, the heaven-crowned.