She walks in beauty,-like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh lily!
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss-one kiss! Rubies unparagon'd,
How dearly they do it! 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper
Bows towards her; and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure, laced
With blue of heaven's own tinct.
Oh, she is all perfections,
All that the blooming earth can send forth fair,
All that the gaudy heavens could drop down glorious!
Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty
As those two eyes become that heavenly face!
Young budding virgin, fair, and fresh, and sweet.
A maid of grace, and complete majesty.
Thou cam'st, my sparkling Bird of Paradise!
With a soft murmuring, as of winnowing wings,
That fold the nest, so dove-like tenderly !
With brows that parted lovely waves of hair,
And took the gazer's eye like some white Grace.
Eyes, loving large! Lips Houri-like, that light
A soul to glory with their kiss of fire,
And cheeks fresh-misted with the bloom of morn.
And thou didst move a splendour mid life's shadows,
Making a Rembrandt picture.
Can gold, alas! with thee compare?
The sun that makes it, 's not so fair;
The sun, which can nor make nor ever see
A thing so beautiful as thee,
In all the journeys he does pass,
Though the sea served him for a looking-glass.
Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features, Seem to be drawn by Love's own hand; by Love
Her Beauty augmented in the Eyes of a Weeping Lover.
So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
As thy eye-beams when their fresh rays have smot
The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows;
Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
Thro' the transparent bosom of the deep,
As doth thy face thro' tears of mine give light;
Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep.
Her Bashful Beauty.
A beauty, carelessly betray'd,
Enamours more, than if display'd
All woman's charms were given;
And, o'er the bosom's vestal white,
The gauze appears a robe of light,
That veils, yet opens heaven.
Beauteous Bearing of.
Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth
And swimming majesty of step and tread,
The symmetry of form and feature, set
The soul afloat, even like delicious airs
Of flute or harp.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Thy unripe youth seem'd like the purple rose
That to the warm ray opens not its breast,
But, hiding still within its mossy vest,
Dares not its virgin beauties to disclose.
Or like Aurora, when the heaven first glows,—
For likeness from above will suit thee best,-
When she with gold kindles each mountain crest,
And o'er the plain her pearly mantle throws.
No loss from time thy riper age receives;
Nor can young beauty, deck'd with art's display,
Rival the native graces of thy form :
Thus lovelier is the flower whose full-blown leaves
Perfume the air, and more than orient ray
The sun's meridian glories blaze and warm.
Her Beauty a World of Charms.
View well her face, and in that little round
You may observe a world's variety :
For colour, lips; for sweet perfumes, her breath;
For jewels, eyes; for threads of purest gold,
Hair; for delicious choice of flowers, cheeks :-
Wonder in every portion of that throne.
Her Contemplative Beauty.
Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features, caught
From contemplation, where, serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought—
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
Byron.
Her Beauty in Death.
She died in beauty!-like a rose
Blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty!-like a pearl
Dropp'd from some diadem.
She died in beauty!-like a lay
Along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty!-like the song
Of birds amid the brake.
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