University of Virginia Library

Oh! fairest 'mongst a million fair!
With sunny eyes and floating hair,
And sylph-like form, and beauteous face,
And charm of fascinating grace,
And stamp of an exalted line
That marks each lineament of thine!
Oh! fairest 'mongst a myriad fair!
Far more than beauty's boast is there,
Or charm of captivating grace,
Or pride of a patrician race,
There lurks the attractive modesty
That deprecates the admiring eye;
The ingenuous candour there is seen,
That, open, smiling, and serene,
For evermore accompanies
Sweet Innocence, that scorns disguise:
And there, too, above all, appears
The gentleness that most endears,
That most can win, and most enthrall—
'Mid thousand graces, first of all!
The brightest jewel in the zone—
The cestus round fair woman thrown!
All vestal thoughts, all angel dreams,
Illumine thine aspect with their beams,
And charms of form, and charms of mind,
In thee so sweetly seem combined,
That brooding this bright vision o'er,
The full heart cannot wish for more.
Could ev'n Imagination seize
On beauties more divine than these?
Eyes—like the Sun in Morn's young hour,
When heightened beauty—softened power—
Make him most Heavenly in the sight,
Shining with Love's own golden light;
Lips—that like bruised pomegranates blush
Still with a deep and deepening flush,
And brighten with such conquering smiles,
That their sweet magic spell beguiles
Craft of its weapons and its wiles—
Dull Envy of its stings and sneers,
And Sorrow of its rising tears!
Rich hair—like Berenice's own,
Which erst unmatched—unrivalled shone
Those clustering locks—those glistering braids
Too precious for these earthly shades,
Translated to the glorying skies
To dazzle ev'n Immortal eyes!
These locks of thine might scarcely yield
To those displayed in that proud field!
How richly do they stream unbound,
In waves of dark luxuriance round,
And cast soft shadows o'er the light
Of thy fair beauty, else too bright!
Most glorious hair! that seems to fall
Just loosened from some delicate thrall,
In burnished hyacinthine flow,
The pillar of thy throat of snow,
And shoulder's sculptured grace below:
Itself the sole crown for that head—
Unjewelled and ungarlanded;
The only mantle that should hide,
Those shoulders' alabaster pride!
That sole rich veil—whose folds reveal
Beauties that match those they conceal!

Enchantment—Oh! enchantment's seen
In those fair features—that sweet mien—
Thou fairest 'mongst a myriad fair!—
Enchantment—Yea! enchantment's there!
And yet, no dangerous Circe thou,
With those meek eyes—that guileless brow.
'Tis the Enchantment pure and true,
For ever exquisite and new—
The magic innocent and rare,
Which works no spell, and weaves no snare
That beauty—when 'tis close allied
With sacred Virtue's modest pride—
Doth ever blamelessly exert,
Over the warm and feeling heart;
Then the prompt sentence of the eyes,
The judgment seals and ratifies!
Oh! fairest 'mongst a myriad fair—
Can pen rehearse the witcheries there?