He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_,
And the roseate blush beguiling,
And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace,
And the lip in moisture smiling:
He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell
O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness,
And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell
Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness:
He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone,
Where the sparkle of gems abounded,
Like the star of eve on her vesper throne,
By the pearls of the sky surrounded:
He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace,
It waved o'er the chords entrancing,
And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace
Of the melody in dancing.
He looked on all these, while links of gold
With the silken chain were blended;
And yet in his bosom calm and cold,
No wave of the soul ascended.
No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze,
The tremulous thought revealing;
He looked for the light of soul in the face,
And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.