 | Poems |  |
56
A PORTRAIT.
Of stature low, and fairy size,Her soul seem'd through her form to rise;
Scarce could the Sculptor's practis'd eye
Decide if her's were symmetry:
For ever bounding, turning, dancing,
Like sun-beam on a meadow glancing,
None could proportion trace;
But still her light and frolic round,
The charmed eye like magic bound,
And all proclaim'd it Grace.
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So softly blent, yet so distinct,
Such brilliant white, such rosy tinct,
The apple blossom shows;
And the pure skin, divinely fair,
Seem'd as the sun had spar'd her ever,
And wintry storms, and summer air,
Had touch'd her never.
Her auburn locks, with wayward will,
From golden bodkin sever still,
Luxuriant, glossy, unconfin'd,
The silken ringlets freely wind;
Now on her snowy forehead wave,
Now sport around her fair cheek's dimple,
Which passes like the calm lake's rimple,
Where the young Cygnets lave:
Sometimes the ruby lips they kiss,
Where lovely smiles so gaily fly,
As if they liv'd for nought but bliss,
And ne'er had breath'd a sigh:
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Whose bright rays thro' the dark lash beaming,
In their own liquid diamonds gleaming,
Like Summer meteors rise:
As if those rays, divinely clear,
Had never glitter'd thro' a tear.
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