University of Virginia Library

The maiden by her mirror stands,
Arraying for the festal dance,
Along her hair her jewelled hands
From tress to tress like lightning glance;
Till all its floating waves of gold
Around her graceful head are rolled,
And seem so rich its braids and bright,
A classic crown of changeful light.

Her diamond zone is clasped above
A heart that throbs with joy and love;
Rich folds of snowy velvet there
Meet on a breast as soft and fair;
Th' elastic foot—a captive light—
Is laced within her slipper white;
And faint the dimpled arm gleams through
Her silken glove's transparent hue,—
A lily 'neath the wave revealed,
That charms the most when half concealed.

And now a rose—Love's own sweet flower,
His gift in Beauty's triumph hour,
To lips that mock its blush is pressed,
And laid upon the maiden's breast.

In truth it is a pleasant sight—
That form of grace, that head of light!
But not the velvet's fairest fold,
And not the braid of gleaming gold;
Nor flashing circlet on the hand,
Nor rainbow-ray of diamond band;
Not these the gazer's eye allure,
But something far more rich and pure.

The rosy glow of girlish joy,
Unmingled yet with Care's alloy;
The lip's sweet curl of maiden-pride,
Not yet to bitterness allied;
The glory of those azure eyes,
Where virgin dreams of rapture rise;
The glad and open brow of youth,
Fair shrine of innocence and truth:
These, these are charms—the true—the pure—
That still the gazer's eye allure.

The maiden by her mirror stands,
Before her clasped her languid hands!
Her robe is loose—her feet are bare—
Her head is bent in mute despair,
And wildly droops her lovely hair;
Her gleaming girdle thrown aside,
Resplendent still in jewelled pride,
How mocks its diamond's radiant smile,
The tears in those blue eyes the while!
A withered rose is at her feet;—
Wet with those tears, it still is sweet.
Ah! not the only flower whose light
Is lost in sorrow's shower to-night!
A rose was on that eloquent face
When last I marked its glowing grace;
Her happy heart's warm crimson tide
Its soft and changing bloom supplied:
The heart is chilled! the cheek is pale!
Sweet flowers must die when fountains fail.
And what has wrought this wretched change?
Alas! 'tis nothing new or strange!
Her smile within the festive hall,
Was saved for one who smiled on all.
Ah! reckless tone and wandering look,
A maiden's spirit ill may brook:
Yet this has Marion met to-night,
With clouded heart and look all light.
Not one throughout the wearying dance
Wore wilder joy of word and glance;
No lighter form, no sunnier eye,
No freer footstep floated by.
And now 'tis o'er, the hated task,
And idle now the mirthful mask;
Quick sobs of anger, grief, and shame,
Like storm-struck blossom bow her frame;
The azure fire that filled her eyes,
Is quenched in tears, that blinding rise;
And quivering lip, and pallid cheek,
The young heart's tale of suffering speak.
Ah! beating heart! and blooming flower!
Your fate is one: one glorious hour,
Ye breathe your wealth of sweetness forth
For those, who feel not half your worth;
The next—'neath cold and reckless eyes—
The full heart breaks!—the blossom dies!