Part 13 (1/2)

Song

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; O, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light!

But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

--_Hartley Coleridge_

To a Lofty Beauty, from Her Poor Kinsman

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude, Thy mazy motions, striving to elude, Yet wooing still a parent's watchful eyes, Thy humours, many as the opal's dyes, And lovely all;--methinks thy scornful mood, And bearing high of stately womanhood,-- Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize O'er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee; For never sure was seen a royal bride, Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride-- My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee: But when I see thee at thy father's side, Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.

--_Hartley Coleridge_

Time of Roses

It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet: O no--the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met!

'Twas twilight, and I bade you go But still you held me fast; It was the time of roses-- We pluck'd them as we pa.s.s'd!

--_Thomas Hood_

Hermione

Thou hast beauty bright and fair, Manner n.o.ble, aspect free, Eyes that are untouch'd by care; What then do we ask from thee?

Hermione, Hermione!

Thou hast reason quick and strong, Wit that envious men admire, And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire?

Hermione, Hermione!

Something thou dost want, O queen!

(As the gold doth ask alloy), Tears--amidst thy laughter seen, Pity--mingling with thy joy.

This is all we ask from thee, Hermione, Hermione!

--_Bryan Waller Proctor_

Delia

Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear.