Lady, I would not flatter thee--oh no!
For ’tis unkind to foster earth-born vanity,
And he doth err that wishes to bestow
An extra share of it on weak humanity.
Yet, on reflection, sure I do not know
That I should be suspected of insanity,
Were I to call thee--as I truly might--
Beautiful, aye, beautiful as a form of light.
Beautiful--and saying it, I tell no lie,
Though tried by Madam Opie’s strict ordeal--
Beautiful--if soft, soul-beaming eye,
And form as graceful as the beau-ideal
The sculptor carved his Cnidian Venus by,
And features blooming, not with cochineal,
But with such hues as Fancy would fain cull
From Angel’s cheeks--if such as these be beautiful.
I would not flatter thee--and yet must say
Thou hast a witching gracefulness of motion,
A dream-like lightness; and thou hast a way
Of sweetly smiling, like the rippled ocean,
When on it joyously the moonbeams play;
And thou hast gaiety softened by devotion,
Aye, and good nature, which, upon inspection,
I always found developed in extreme perfection.
I would not flatter thee--much less, would know
The pungent strength of critical acidity
For talking _prettily_ of ‘twilight glow,’
And ‘moons,’ and ‘sighs’--all types of insipidity.
And yet I say not that the earth can show
Ought more enchanting than the deep placidity
Stealing around us on a moonlight eve,
When winds are hushed in sleep, and clouds the heavens leave.
And when, at that most heart-ensnaring time,
With thee I gaze upon the huge old man
Reigning in yon pale center-light of rhyme,
Or in the heavens the path of Venus scan,
Or fancy from the spheres the distant chime
Of evening bells--I will not say that then
Strange feelings come not o’er me, soft and solemn,
Producing--tears, perhaps, and poetry by the volume.
I will not say that then I have not found
In thee almost an Angel’s loveliness,
Or that thy voice has not as sweet a sound
As music on the waters, or that less
Than a bright spirit’s influence has bound
My soul in that fond dream of blessedness,
Which, vastly strengthened by thy conversation,
Has seemed, to say the least, a sweet hallucination.
I would not flatter thee--much less, indeed,
Would seem, in poetry, a _Della Cruscan_;
I own not that, nor any kindred creed;
Nor do I like the sentimental fustian,
Which modern fashionables so much read.--
Now he who honestly professes thus, can
By law poetic, ne’er be an offender,
Though, now and then, he _seem_ a little over-tender.
From friends long loved how hard it is to part!
How hard, indeed, from one but _briefly_ known--
From _thee_, sweet bird of passage, as thou art--
Charming awhile, but oh, how quickly flown!
Aye, thou’rt away:--and my unguarded heart--
Whither, ah, whither has the truant gone?
In vain I search;--didst _thou_, fair maiden, take it?
Then, cast it not away, for rudeness sure would break it!