 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
THE MAIDEN WITH HER ABSENT LOVER'S PORTRAIT.
Why did he paint them to the life,
The lip, the brow, the eye?
Yet fail to make them warmly rife,
Like thine with feeling high.
The lip, the brow, the eye?
Yet fail to make them warmly rife,
Like thine with feeling high.
Are these the lips that thrilled to mine?
Is this the forehead bland?
Is this the hair I used to twine
With fond and frolic hand?
Is this the forehead bland?
Is this the hair I used to twine
With fond and frolic hand?
233
Is this the cheek I loved to touch?
Are these the eyes of blue?
Whose very colour told how much
Of Heaven the spirit knew.
Are these the eyes of blue?
Whose very colour told how much
Of Heaven the spirit knew.
Alas! the hue—the shape—the air—
Are truly told, I know;
The waving of the deep brown hair—
The arching of the brow.—
Are truly told, I know;
The waving of the deep brown hair—
The arching of the brow.—
But where's the soul-beam, soft and bright,
That so illumined them;
The smile, worth all the jewel-light
Of regal diadem.
That so illumined them;
The smile, worth all the jewel-light
Of regal diadem.
Ah! plaint like this the painter wrongs,
Beyond his weak control;
Only to those thou lov'st belongs,
The language of thy soul!
Beyond his weak control;
Only to those thou lov'st belongs,
The language of thy soul!
I could not prize thee half so much,
If all were blessed by thee,
With smiles of hallowed meaning—such
As those thou giv'st to me!
If all were blessed by thee,
With smiles of hallowed meaning—such
As those thou giv'st to me!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |