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32
VALENTINE
Not mine the painter's skill to trace
With pencil free, in flowing line,
And nice detail, a perfect face;
A figure cast in mould Divine,
Moved with a woman's grace.
With pencil free, in flowing line,
And nice detail, a perfect face;
A figure cast in mould Divine,
Moved with a woman's grace.
The poet, in his sorrow blest,
May tell with quivering quill
Some tender tale of broken rest,
And gentle eyes with teardrops fill,
And pity fills the breast.
May tell with quivering quill
Some tender tale of broken rest,
And gentle eyes with teardrops fill,
And pity fills the breast.
Nor is his labour all in vain
If heartfelt sighs his bosom wring,
And lower notes, and sadder strain,
Show distant ages wondering
A larger love, a deeper pain.
If heartfelt sighs his bosom wring,
And lower notes, and sadder strain,
Show distant ages wondering
A larger love, a deeper pain.
33
A heavy task; but heavier yet
Is grief that finds not any song—
His joy short-lived, and long regret,
Who bears his burden in the throng,
And seeks in silence to forget.
Is grief that finds not any song—
His joy short-lived, and long regret,
Who bears his burden in the throng,
And seeks in silence to forget.
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