Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
 |
THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.
|
 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
202
THE GIRL AND THE HAWK.
FROM A PICTURE BY G. S. NEWTON, R.A.
Graceful “phantom of delight!”
Glorious type of beauty bright!
Such as haunts the poet's vision,
When his dreams are all elysian,—
When his musing fancy brings
Shadows of all lovely things;
And famed Zeuxis' art excelling,
He hath formed a second Helen,—
Wanting but the power of speech,—
From the glowing traits of each!
Glorious type of beauty bright!
Such as haunts the poet's vision,
When his dreams are all elysian,—
When his musing fancy brings
Shadows of all lovely things;
And famed Zeuxis' art excelling,
He hath formed a second Helen,—
Wanting but the power of speech,—
From the glowing traits of each!
But she may not vie with thee!
There's a sweet simplicity
Flitting round thine open brow,
Sporting on thy ripe lips now,
Mantling o'er thy maiden cheek
In hues that leave description weak;
With a brightness all too real
For a poet's beau ideal!
There's a sweet simplicity
Flitting round thine open brow,
Sporting on thy ripe lips now,
Mantling o'er thy maiden cheek
In hues that leave description weak;
With a brightness all too real
For a poet's beau ideal!
203
Though an angel's grace is thine,
Though the light is half divine,
That with chastened lustre flashes
From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes;
Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair,
And that sweetly pensive air,
Speak thee but of mortal birth,
An erring, witching child of earth;
In each varied mood revealing
Human hope and human feeling;
Gladsome now—now vowed to sorrow—
Gay to-day if sad to-morrow!
Though the light is half divine,
That with chastened lustre flashes
From beneath thine eyes' dark lashes;
Yet thy thoughtful forehead fair,
And that sweetly pensive air,
Speak thee but of mortal birth,
An erring, witching child of earth;
In each varied mood revealing
Human hope and human feeling;
Gladsome now—now vowed to sorrow—
Gay to-day if sad to-morrow!
Huntress fair, the sport is over,
Wherefore chain thy feathered rover?
Rich indeed the prize must be,
That could lure him far from thee!
What to him those silken jesses,
Tangled in thy glossy tresses;
Dazzled by thy beauty's light,
Can he plume his wings for flight;
Fettered by a smile so bland,
Will he ever leave thy hand?—
No;—let him on thy beauty feed,
And he'll no firmer jesses need.
Wherefore chain thy feathered rover?
Rich indeed the prize must be,
That could lure him far from thee!
What to him those silken jesses,
Tangled in thy glossy tresses;
Dazzled by thy beauty's light,
Can he plume his wings for flight;
Fettered by a smile so bland,
Will he ever leave thy hand?—
No;—let him on thy beauty feed,
And he'll no firmer jesses need.
| Lyrics of the heart | |