 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
20
TO BELINDA.
Oh, those eyes! but that right eye in particular!
Billy Lackaday.
Billy Lackaday.
Those auburn tresses sweetly play,
Around that pearly neck so fair,
And sweetly does that brow display
The clustering ringlets slumbering there.
Not sea-born Venus, famed of old,
With streaming locks, like threads of gold,
Sparkling with ocean's liquid brightness,
Could boast of graces so divine,
As those bewitching locks of thine,
Which shade thy forehead's sunny whiteness.
Around that pearly neck so fair,
And sweetly does that brow display
The clustering ringlets slumbering there.
Not sea-born Venus, famed of old,
With streaming locks, like threads of gold,
Sparkling with ocean's liquid brightness,
Could boast of graces so divine,
As those bewitching locks of thine,
Which shade thy forehead's sunny whiteness.
The softest shade of Tyrian dye,
Could never with that cheek compare;
Nor will the bright carnation vie
In color, with thy lip, my fair.
What though Cashmere's delightful vale,
With balmy odor freights the gale
At every fragrant feast of roses,
Its charms are here—why farther seek?
Its tints are blooming on thy cheek,
Its fragrance on thy lip reposes.
Could never with that cheek compare;
Nor will the bright carnation vie
In color, with thy lip, my fair.
What though Cashmere's delightful vale,
With balmy odor freights the gale
At every fragrant feast of roses,
Its charms are here—why farther seek?
Its tints are blooming on thy cheek,
Its fragrance on thy lip reposes.
21
That lip, so like the bow of love,
In graceful curvature and hue,
And there 's a dimple just above,
A quiver for his arrows, too,
That sacred shrine of nameless charms,
That faultless shape, those graceful arms,
That peerless elegance of motion;
With richer beauties of the mind,
All—all, in one dear form combined,
May well inspire this heart's devotion.
In graceful curvature and hue,
And there 's a dimple just above,
A quiver for his arrows, too,
That sacred shrine of nameless charms,
That faultless shape, those graceful arms,
That peerless elegance of motion;
With richer beauties of the mind,
All—all, in one dear form combined,
May well inspire this heart's devotion.
But oh, that eye, that beaming eye,
Mild as the softest star of even,
Clear as the azure of the sky,
Bright as the vesper lamp of heaven!
Whence was that orb of beauty stole,
Whose matchless lustre, in my soul
Has lit a flame no power can smother!
“Which?” asked the fair—“I'm clear of theft—
These sixteen years I 've owned the left,
And pa paid Scudder for the other.”
Mild as the softest star of even,
Clear as the azure of the sky,
Bright as the vesper lamp of heaven!
Whence was that orb of beauty stole,
Whose matchless lustre, in my soul
Has lit a flame no power can smother!
“Which?” asked the fair—“I'm clear of theft—
These sixteen years I 've owned the left,
And pa paid Scudder for the other.”
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |