The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
330
HOW AM I LIKE HER?
“You are very like her.”—Miss E--- H---.
“Resemblances begin to strike
In things exceedingly unlike.”
—MS. Poem.
In things exceedingly unlike.”
—MS. Poem.
How am I like her?—for no trace
Of pain, of passion, or of aught
That stings or stains, is on her face:—
Mild eyes, clear forehead,—ne'er was wrought
A fitter, fairer dwelling-place
For tranquil joy and holy thought.
Of pain, of passion, or of aught
That stings or stains, is on her face:—
Mild eyes, clear forehead,—ne'er was wrought
A fitter, fairer dwelling-place
For tranquil joy and holy thought.
How am I like her?—for the fawn
Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill,
Than she, beneath the intruding dawn
Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille;
Or tripping o'er our level lawn
To those she loves upon the hill.
Not lighter bounds o'er rock and rill,
Than she, beneath the intruding dawn
Threading, all mirth, our gay quadrille;
Or tripping o'er our level lawn
To those she loves upon the hill.
How am I like her?—for the ear
Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone
Goes forth, as eloquently clear
As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne;
And makes the hearts of those who hear
As pure and peaceful as her own.
Thrills with her voice. Its breezy tone
Goes forth, as eloquently clear
As are the lutes at Heaven's high throne;
And makes the hearts of those who hear
As pure and peaceful as her own.
331
How am I like her?—for her ways
Are full of bliss. She never knew
Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise
Insatiable;—Love never threw
Upon her calm and sunny days
The venom of his deadly dew.
Are full of bliss. She never knew
Stern avarice, nor the thirst of praise
Insatiable;—Love never threw
Upon her calm and sunny days
The venom of his deadly dew.
How am I like her?—for her arts
Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall;
She dries the tear-drop as it starts,
And checks the murmurs as they fall;
She is the day-star of our hearts,
Consoling, guiding, gladdening all.
Are blessing. Sorrow owns her thrall;
She dries the tear-drop as it starts,
And checks the murmurs as they fall;
She is the day-star of our hearts,
Consoling, guiding, gladdening all.
How am I like her?—for she steals
All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play
Is left for her; and wild Youth kneels
Obedient to her gentle sway;
And Age beholds her smile, and feels
December brightening into May.
All sympathies. Glad Childhood's play
Is left for her; and wild Youth kneels
Obedient to her gentle sway;
And Age beholds her smile, and feels
December brightening into May.
How am I like her?—The rude fir
Is little like the sweet rose-tree:—
Unless perchance, fair flatterer,
In this your fabled likeness be,—
That all who are most dear to her
Are apt to be most dear to me.
Is little like the sweet rose-tree:—
Unless perchance, fair flatterer,
In this your fabled likeness be,—
That all who are most dear to her
Are apt to be most dear to me.
October 10, 1829.
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