The bard, and minor poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thy name—its very sound is beautiful,
And soft, and sweet, and deeply musical!
Thy form—love never gazed on one more perfect,
More graceful, chaste, more delicately full;
And when I look upon thy rounded waist,
Imaged and moulded as from fairy land,
The splendour of th' enchantment fills my soul!

Not even the swan, sung of in poets' lays,
Gliding on summer lake, is half so gentle,

So softly elegant, as thou art, Mary!
Thy neck hath a diviner, purer lustre,
Thy swelling bosom richer loveliness.
Thy step so light and soft, the full-blown rose
Would scarcely crumble underneath the pressure;
And, had'st thou dwelt in forest solitudes,
Like to those fabled maidens who, of old,
Hunted the wild deer in fair Dian's train,—
No gentle antelope on mountain heights,
Or youthful roebuck 'mong the golden heath,
Could bound along with softer elegance.

Can I describe her face? the changeful hues
Passing for ever o'er its sunny surface?
The blush of love, or joy, or sympathy,
Chasten'd and pure as heaven's at early morn?
The varying shades, now mildly pale, and sad,
Now sweet and cheerful as a summer sky,
Now full of that strange beauty which is given
By deep and strong emotion, hot and glowing,
And ruth, and woe, and tenderness, that give
Such loveliness to woman—heaven-born woman!

The delicate and quivering plant, whose leaves
Tremble at every touch, or the fair rose
Drooping beneath the dew, or weeping willow,
Or ocean in a shower, or heaven at twilight,
Imparts not to man's heart such imaged sadness,
Glad even though sorrowful, like smiles through tears,
As spring from lovely woman's warm emotion!

And then her eye—that glorious, beauteous orb,
Which men so love to gaze on, and which tells
More of a God than all the orbs of heaven;
Her eye, so darkly beautiful, and rich
In youth's mild fire, and passionately bright,
Would light a realm, and prompt the coldest heart!

Her lips—what bliss to press those scarlet lips!
I know not which of Nature's images
May serve to picture them, for nought is there
Through forest, field, or garden, that can vie
In mild and melting warmth, and rose-red beauty,
With the soft lips of this most lovely maiden.

Nay, Queen of Beauty, thou art all enchanting!
From the dark clustering locks that crowd along
Thy lofty blue-vein'd brow, to the small foot,
Graceful, and light, and exquisitely form'd,—
I know not of a speck in face or form,
To dim the dear perfection of thy beauty!

I would have spoke of Mind,—of the fine power,
The varying eloquence, and magic charm
Of that strange, unknown essence, which kind Heaven
Has given to all, but unto thee most freely,—
But that I cannot: for to speak of this,—
Of all the intellectual joy and bliss
That I have felt from its outpouring stores,
Would claim an angel's pen, dipped in the fire,
Burning, intense, of heaven's far-stretching lightnings!

And now, bright idol of my heart, adieu!
The wide and heaving sea divides us now,
And long must it roll on ere I behold thee!
Yet never, never, wheresoe'er I roam,
Whether in mine own land, or far-off shores,
Beneath the burning sun of tropic climes,
Or 'mid the icy temples of the North,
Can I forget thy name, or cease to love thee!
And should I ne'er be doomed to see thee more,
There, in the stranger land, I'll love thee still;
And on the bed of death, where darkness broods,
The memory of the past will soothe my spirit,—
The image of thy form will float around me—
Beauteous and lovely as in days of yore!
And, dying, I will breathe thy holy name.
Mary! beloved of my soul—Farewell!
Yet, once again, that sad, wild word—Farewell!

March, 1829.