BEAUTY has gone, but yet her mind is still
As beautiful as ever; still the play
Of light around her lips has every charm
Of childhood in its freshness: Love has there
Stamped his unfading impress, and the hues
Of fancy shine around her, as the sun
Gilds at his setting some decaying tower,
With feathered moss and ivy overgrown.
I knew her in the dawning of her charms.
When the new rose first opened, and its sweets
No wind had wasted. She was of those forms
Appelles might have painted for the Queen
Of loveliness and love-light as the fays
Dancing on glimmering dew-drops, when the moon
Rides in her silver softness, and the world
Is calm and brightly beautiful below.
She was all mildness, and the melting tone
Of her sweet voice thrilled me and seemed to flow
Into my soul, a stream of melody,
Delicious in its mellowness; it spake
A heart at ease—and then the quiet smile
Sat playing on her lips, that, pouting, spread
Their vermil freshness forth, as if to ask
The kiss of him she smiled on. In her eye
Gentleness had its dwelling, and light Mirth
Glanced out in sudden flashes, and keen Wit
Shot arrows which delighted, while they stung.
She was a young Medusa, ere she knew
The evil of a world that watched to blast
Her loveliness, and make it terrible ;
Striking a dead cold horror on the heart
Of him who saw the fairest of all things,
A lovely woman, made the common prey
Of lawless passion—but it touched not her:
No mist breathed o'er her brightness; but the prire
Full light of virtue rested there, and shed
New lustre on the light that ever came
Through her transparent features, and revealed
Each movement of the soul that swelled within :
And they were all of Heaven-such high desires
As angels had been proud of–pure as light
In its primeval fountain, ere it flowed
'To mingle with the elements, and lose
Its perfect clearness. She was as a flower
New opened in a valley, where no foot
Had trodden, and no living thing had left
Print of the world's pollution: there she blew
Fragrant and lovely, and a parent's hand
Shielded her from the winds that blast, or bring
Poison upon their wings, and taint the heart
Left open to their influence. Shielded there,
She ripened all her treasures, and became
Full-blown and rich in her maturity-
The dwelling of a spirit, not of earth,
But ever mingling with the pure and high
Conceptions of a soul that spreads its wings
To fly where Mind, when boldest, dared to soar.
And though the form has withered, and the bloom
Has faded, she is lovely; for the sounds
'Chat issue from her lips, and flow around
In liquid eloquence, are oracles
Of more than ancient wisdom, or they speak
l'ortions of that full hymn of Poesy,
Which ever rises when a mind on fire
Blends with the majesty of outward things;
And with the glories of a boundless Heaven,
And a rich earth, and ever-rolling sea
Communing, swells to that ineffable
Fruition, which in hope will never end.
THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR
THE POET.
THOUGH I am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet's sake; Forget me not till he's forgot;
I, care or slight, with him would take.
For oft he passed the blossoms by,
And gazed on me with kindly look; Left flaunting flowers and open sky,
And wooed me by the shady brook.
And like the brook his voice was low:
So soft, so sad the words he spoke,
That with the stream they seemed to flow:
They told me that his heart was broke ;
They said, the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight woodHis spirit, weary of the sun,
In humblest things found chiefest good;
That I was of a lowly frame,
And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name,
But fluttered out its idle hour;
That I was kind to old decay,
And wrapt it softly round in green, On naked root, and trunk of gray,
Spread out a garniture and screen :
They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me; That on his manhood fell a blast,
And left him bare, like yonder tree;
|