"Here's a long line of beauties--see!
Ay, and as varied as they're many--
Say, can I guess the one would be
Your choice among them all--if any?"
"I doubt it,--for I hold as dust
Charms many praise beyond all measure--
While gems they treat as lightly, _must_
Combine to form my chosen treasure."
"Will this do?"--"No;--that hair of gold,
That brow of snow, that eye of splendour,
Cannot redeem the mien so cold,
The air so stiff, so quite _un-tender_."
"This then?"--"Far worse! _Can_ lips like these
Thus smile as though they asked the kiss?--
Thinks she that e'en such eyes can please,
Beaming--there is no word--like _this?_"
"Look on that singer at the harp,
Of her you cannot speak thus--ah, no!"
--"Her! why she's _formed_ of flat and sharp--
I doubt not she's a fine soprano!"
"The next?"--"What, she who lowers her eyes
From sheer mock-modesty--so pert,
So doubtful-mannered?--I despise
Her, and all like her--she's a _Flirt!_
"And this is why my spleen's above
The power of words;--'tis that they can
Make the vile semblance be to Love
Just what the Monkey is to Man!
"But yonder I, methinks, can trace
One _very_ different from these--
Her features speak--her form is Grace
Completed by the touch of Ease!
"That opening lip, that fine frank eye
Breathe Nature's own true gaiety--
So sweet, so rare _when thus_, that I
Gaze on't with joy, nay ecstacy!
"For when _'tis_ thus, you'll also see
That eye still richer gifts express--
And on that lip there oft will be
A sighing smile of tenderness!
"Yes! here a matchless spirit dwells
E'en for that lovely dwelling fit!--
I gaze on her--my bosom swells
With feelings, thoughts,----oh! exquisite!
"That such a being, noble, tender,
So fair, so delicate, so dear,
Would let one love her, and _befriend_ her!--
--Ah, yes, _my_ Chosen One is here!"
_London Magazine_.
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