The Harp of Erin | ||
81
THE BROWN BEAUTY.
While flushing o'er thy olive cheek,Like the morning's dubious break,
Virgin shame delights to spread
Her roses of a deeper red;
And those ruddy lips of thine
Emulate the bleeding vine;
Think'st thou Celia's languid white
Can allure my roving sight,
Or my bosom catch a glow
From that chilling form of snow?
In those orbs, O nymph divine!
Stars may well be said to shine,
Stars whose pointed rays are made
More brilliant by surrounding shade;
Shade thy raven-locks supply
To relieve my dazzled eye.
Trust me, thy transcendant face
Takes from its brown a mellower grace;
A ripe autumnal bloom benign,
Whence all the Loves exulting shine;
As jet emits a glossy light,
From its polish'd surface bright.
The Harp of Erin | ||