Here is no feature half awry,
Too large a nose, too small an eye,
No forehead just an inch too low,
No faulty stroke, no faithless glow;(2)
And, best of all eulogia! here
No false deceiving charms appear;
But the fair face as Nature made it,
So hath the regal sun portray'd it!
The cordial, frank, old English air
Sits nobly on the features there;
And shrewd and bland, with cheerful wile
She seems to seek an answ'ring smile.
That is her turn—you may compare it,—
And that her very glance—I'll swear it!
There is her brow, sans cap or wimple,
And there her mirth-enjoying dimple—
That comely cheek, and rounded chin—
To mar them were a mortal sin!
There clusters each bright waving tress,
And there's, I vow, her last new dress—
A shaded silk, each stripe and fold;
And, as I live! The chain of gold
Whose glitt'ring circles lightly deck
the alabaster of that neck;
And, see, the brooch—that petted snake,
More happy than in flow'ry brake.

      Most marvellous! So soft, so true!
A priceless pearl—a rare bijou!
So much herself—keep it beside you,
Nor time, nor tide can e'er divide you;
Or place it, in the sun, before you,
And strangest fancies will creep o'er you;
Those sportive eyes will seem to glisten—
That little ear, well pleased, to listen—
That arch and coaxing smile to play,
      And snare your very heart away—
Those lips to breathe, to move, to talk,
And, with a gentle aspiration,
To share their owner's morning walk,
      Give you right courteous invitation.

      Oh! Hence-immortaliz'd Daguerre—
The fair La Creevy's(3) dark despair!
Whoe'er shall wisely wish to be
Portray'd in pure reality,
And in the likeness of his friend,
Would have no borrow'd beauties blend;
Nor yet, by clumsy art defaced,
Find charms and much-lov'd traits erased,

Take back the picture now, Lucrece
(Reluctantly we must resign it!);
And, doating on its ev'ry trace,
Ere in its casket you enshrine it,
Whene'er you gaze, and gaze and feel
Its mystic influence o'er you steal
And seem to commune, though apart,
With the sweet sister of your heart,
Bethink you she would prize, like you,
A sister's faithful semblance too.
We wot a certain hazel eye,
Bright as the star I yonder eye,
Bright as the star in yonder sky—
A pencill'd brow, a forehead fair—
And glossy braids of raven hair—
A merry glance—a sunny smile,
Whose playful sweetness doth beguile—
a winning, heart-illumin'd face,
Where goodness hath imprest her trace,
Proclaiming o'er each flexile trait
Her own supreme eternal sway.
But why these items here recall?
Peep in your glass, you'll see them all;
And, if you would "dear Sarah" please,
Send her the portraiture of these—
A sparkling, speaking, fond reflection,
For ever priz'd by pure affection.

      Our engraving represents the photographic process at Mr. Beard's establishment, Parliament-street, Westminster.

      (1) Nothing can be further from my intention than to decry the brilliant productions of these masters, or to snatch from painting the highest honours awarded to it by its most ardent admirers—among who I desire to be ranked; I refer only to that unerring accuracy of resemblance which, unattainable by the pencil, renders the Daguerreotype invaluable in portraiture.
      (2) Defects "plenty as blackberries" in the productions of the La Creevy school.
      (3) Who can have forgotten the warm-hearted little miniature-paintress, Miss La Creevy, afterwards Mrs. Tim Linkinwater, in "Nicholas Nickleby?"
      (4) The dazzling, but often fugitive, lights of expression, which not infrequently elude the practised and accomplished pencil, are rarely, if ever, caught by an inferior hand. To copy the features is a task of little difficulty; but to inform them with the character, and animate them with the expression of the sitter, require gifts and attainments not possessed by the ordinary face-painter. Here the Daguerreotype is unrivalled, and preserves, for ever, the fleeting sunbeam of a smile.
      (5) It is impossible to purge poor human nature of conceit. "Amour-propre aime les portraits;" but, as the Daguerreotype tells "the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the truth," they who, innocent of the attributes, pretend to youth, beauty, grace, and intellectual character, and to whom many years' close consultation of the glass has failed to dispel the "dear delusion," are ludicrously dismayed when they espy their honest resemblances, and as they can be in no wise persuaded of the unpalatable fact that the Daguerreotype is infallible, they fall foul on it, and denounce it with a heat and vindictiveness unspeakably amusing. It is needless to say that such aspirants only can be disappointed by a discovery that cannot be too highly estimated by the social affections. What treasure can we possess more coveted than the perfect likeness of the friend or relative most dear to our heart, and when did the pencil thoroughly satisfy the expectations of the eye familiar with the form, air, and bearing of the portrayed?

(Transcriber's note: Original symbols used for footnotes have been revised to numbers. The poem is accompanied by a wood engraving illustration taken from the daguerreotype of Jabez Hogg making a portrait in Richard Beard's studio. The transcriber notes that the original daguerreotype is reproduced in Stephen Richter "The Art of the Daguerreotype" [London: Viking, 1989].)