Oh! I could almost weep to think that thou
Whom heaven hath moulded in a form as fair
As fancy pictures those of upper air,
Shouldst thus belie the promise of that brow
Where truth seems to repose, pure as its snow.
Alas! that treachery should lurk beneath
Such smiles!--a hidden serpent in a wreath
Of Eden flowers!--what art thou, wouldst thou know?
In all thy pride of charms?--A living tomb
Of buried hopes--the grave of ruined hearts
Which trusted, loved thee,--dreaming not that arts
Which taught the soul excess of bliss, would doom
The worshipper to--no! not Death, but worse--
And yet thou art too fair a thing to curse.
{29}