He was exceedingly anxious in after life to destroy the copies of this
poem which had been circulated, and bought and procured them by every
means in his power for the purpose of destroying them; it is probable
not a single copy is in existence at the present period. It has been
remarked, that, "it requires nothing short of the solitude of exile, and
the idolatry which he manifested for his son, to inspire him once more.
In neither of the original poems is it indicated which he preferred."
VYVYAN.
TO THE PORTRAIT OF MY SON.
Delightful image of my much loved boy!
Behold his eyes, his looks, his cherub smile!
No more, alas! will he enkindle joy,
Nor on some kindlier shore my woes beguile.
My son! my darling son! wert thou but here,
My bosom should receive thy lovely form:
Thou'dst soothe my gloomy hours with converse dear:
Serenely mild behold the lowering storm.
I'd be the partner of thy infant cares,
And pour instruction o'er thy expanding mind;
Whilst in thy heart, in my declining years,
My wearied soul should an asylum find.
My wrongs--my cares--should be forgot with thee,
My power--imperial dignities--renown--
This rock itself would be a heaven to me;
Thine arms more cherished than the victor's crown.
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