 | Poems |  |
THE SPELL.
Jemima! not that she is fair,
And yet her beauty is excelling;
Not for the mildly winning air,
Her native sweetness gently telling;
Not for the azure veins that streak
Her neck and rounded arms so lightly;
Not for the modest cheerful cheek,
Where rosy blushes live so brightly.
And yet her beauty is excelling;
Not for the mildly winning air,
Her native sweetness gently telling;
Not for the azure veins that streak
Her neck and rounded arms so lightly;
Not for the modest cheerful cheek,
Where rosy blushes live so brightly.
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Not for the harmony of face,
Of form, of manner, or of stature;
Oh, not for any outward grace,
She seems to me the pride of nature.
Hers is a charm that thought may paint,
But words are weak for its revealing:
The temper of a gentle saint,
Ruled by a matchless heart of feeling.
Of form, of manner, or of stature;
Oh, not for any outward grace,
She seems to me the pride of nature.
Hers is a charm that thought may paint,
But words are weak for its revealing:
The temper of a gentle saint,
Ruled by a matchless heart of feeling.
'Twas this that bade me seek my bride,
When dreams were o'er of first affection;
'Tis this that, now her truth is tried,
Sets reason's seal on love's election.
'Tis this, beyond the boast of birth,
Beyond her beauty far excelling,
That makes a paradise of earth,
And home a dear Elysian dwelling.
When dreams were o'er of first affection;
'Tis this that, now her truth is tried,
Sets reason's seal on love's election.
'Tis this, beyond the boast of birth,
Beyond her beauty far excelling,
That makes a paradise of earth,
And home a dear Elysian dwelling.
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