"Keep moving," we know, was the cry long ago; But now, never hare was "found sitting," I swear, Like the crowds who repair To old Cavendish Square, And mount up a mile and a quarter of stair. In procession that beggars the Lord Mayor's show! And all are on tiptoe, the high and the low, To sit in that glass-cover'd blue studio; In front of those boxes, wherein when you look Your image reversed will minutely appear, So delicate, forcible, brilliant, and clear, So small, full, and round, with a life so profound, As none ever wore In a mirror before; Or the depths of a glassy and branch-shelter'd brook, That glides amidst moss o'er a smooth-pebbled ground. Apollo, whom Drummond of Hawthornden styled "Apelles of flowers," Now mixes his showers Of sunshine, with colours by clouds undefiled; Apelles indeed to man, woman, and child. His agent on earth, when your attitude's right, Your collar adjusted, your locks in their place, Just seizes one moment of favouring light, And utters three sentences--"Now it's begun,"-- "It's going on now, sir,"--and "Now it is done;" And lo! as I live, there's the cut of your face On a silvery plate, Unerring as fate, Worked off in celestial and strange mezzotint, A little resembling an elderly print. "Well, I _never_!" all cry; "it is cruelly like you!" But Truth is unpleasant To prince and to peasant. You recollect Lawrence, and think of the graces That Chalon and Company give to their faces; The face you have worn fifty years doesn't strike you! III.--THE CRITICISMS OF THE SITTERS--THE MORAL. "Can this be _me_! do look, mama!" Poor Jane begins to whimper; "I _have_ a smile, 'tis true;--but, pa! This gives me quite a simper." Says Tibb, whose plays are worse than bad, "It makes my forehead flat;" And being classical, he'll add, "I'm blow'd if I'm like _that_." Courtly, all candour, owns his portrait true; "Oh, yes, it's like; yes, very; it will do. Extremely like me--every feature--_but_ That plain pug-nose; now mine's the Grecian cut!" Her Grace surveys her face with drooping lid; Prefers the portrait which Sir Thomas did; Owns that o'er this _some_ traits of truth are sprinkled; But views the brow with anger--"Why, it's wrinkled!" "Like _me_!" cries Sir Turtle; "I'll lay two to one It would only be guess'd by my foes; No, no, it is plain there are spots in the sun, Which accounts for these spots on my nose." "A likeness!" cries Crosslook, the lawyer, and sneers; "Yes, the wig, throat and forehead I spy, And the mouth, chin, and cheeks, and the nose and the ears, But it gives me a cast in the eye!"