Pure courtesy, composure, ease, Declare affections nobly fixed, The cestus clasping Venus' side, Of him who would affront its pride. Wrong dares not in her presence speak, Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. How artless in her very art! How (not to call true instinct's bent How amiable and innocent Her pleasure in her power to charm! How humbly careful to attract, Though crowned with all the soul desires, Connubial aptitude exact, Diversity that never tires! SONG. COVENTRY PATMORE. THE shape alone let others prize, I look for spirit in her eyes, A damask cheek, an ivory arm, That speaks a mind within. A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love. These are the soul of beauty's frame; But ah! where both their charms unite, Of power to charm the greatest woe, I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN. I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden; Thou needest not fear mine; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burden thine. I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion; Thou needest not fear mine; Innocent is the heart's devotion With which I worship thine. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow; For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim, RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN A GOLDEN GIRL. LUCY is a golden girl; But a man, a man, should woo her! They who seek her shrink aback, When they should, like storms, pursue her. All her smiles are hid in light; All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night And a heart that 's over-tender. Yet the foolish suitors fly (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty! Men by fifty seasons taught Leave her to a young beginner, Who, without a second thought, Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her. Lucy is a golden girl! Toast her in a goblet brimming! May the man that wins her wear On his heart the Rose of Women! THE MILKING-MAID. THE year stood at its equinox, And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, I met a maid with shining locks She wore a kerchief on her neck, Too pointless for the city. She kept in time without a beat, As true as church-bell ringers, Unless she tapped time with her feet, Or squeezed it with her fingers; Her clear, unstudied notes were sweet As many a practised singer's. I stood a minute out of sight, To eye the pail, and creamy white To eye the comely milking-maid, Herself so fresh and creamy. "Good day to you!" at last I said; She turned her head to see me. "Good day!" she said, with lifted head; Her eyes looked soft and dreamy. And all the while she milked and milked But not a sweeter, fresher maid Whose pleasant face and silky braid I have not yet forgotten. Seven springs have passed since then, as I Count with a sober sorrow; Seven springs have come and passed me by, I've half a mind to shake myself And leave it done or undone ; To run down by the early train, Whirl down with shriek and whistle, And feel the bluff north blow again, And mark the sprouting thistle And spy the scarce-blown violet banks, Alas! one point in all my plan My serious thoughts demur to: Not rosy, or too rosy; Some husband keeps her cosy, CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI AT THE CHURCH GATE. ALTHOUGH I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her. |