If e'er, except in Painting's dream,
There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,--
Gone like the face that in the stream
Of Ocean for an instant shone,
When Venus at that mirror gave
A last look ere she left the wave.
And tho', among the crowded ways,
We oft are startled by the blaze
Of eyes that pass with fitful light.
Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8]
'Tis not that nobler beauty given
To show how angels look in heaven.
Even in its shape most pure and fair,
'Tis Beauty with but half her zone,
All that can warm the sense is there,
But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:--
'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,--warm,
Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined;
A flower round which the noontide swarm
Of young Desires may buzz and wind,
But where true Love no treasure meets
Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.
Ah no,--for this and for the hue
Upon the rounded cheek, which tells
How fresh within the heart this dew
Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells,
We must go back to our own Isles,
Where Modesty, which here but gives
A rare and transient grace to smiles,
In the heart's holy centre lives;
And thence as from her throne diffuses
O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,
That not a thought or feeling loses
Its freshness in that gentle chain.
Pages:
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961
962
963
964
965
966
967
968
969
970
971
972
973
974
975
976
977