Her Nameless Grace.
You ask what charm in Nancy's face
This foolish heart has found?—
I cannot name one striking grace,
Of great and noble sound.
But there's a certain something there
My mind must needs adore ;
A something not exactly fair,
And yet extremely more.
A finer face perhaps may try
A greater share of art,
And yet can only touch the eye,
But never strike the heart.
The sweetest soul, experience sees,
Intensity of her Grief.
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,
Not once had turn'd to either side-
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose ;
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew—
And there with glassy gaze she stood,
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear,
So large and slowly gather'd, slid
From the long, dark fringe of that fair lid;
It was a thing to see, not hear!
And those who saw, it did surprise,
Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak the thought—the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
Grief for when Lost.
A loss of her
That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years
About his neck, yet never lost her lustre.
When overwhelmed by Grief.
O'er every feature of that still, pale face,
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase:
The tender blue of that large loving eye
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,
Till-oh, how far!-it caught a glance of him,
And then it flow'd, and frenzied seem'd to swim
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes, dew'd
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd.
Her Deep-seated Grief.
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
Flowers to bedeck her Grave.
I'll sweeten thy sad grave, thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face-pale primrose; nor
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Outsweeten'd not thy breath. The ruddock would,
With charitable bill, bring thee all this,
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter in ground thy corse.
Soft hair, on which light drops a diadem.
Her brow, fit home for daintiest dreams,
With such a dawn of light was crown'd,
And reeling ringlets shower'd round,
Like sunny sheaves of golden beams.
A dazzling white hand, vein'd cerulean.
With hands so flower-like, soft, and fair,
She caught at life with words as sweet
As first spring violets.
Oh, save me from the jilt's dissembling part,
Who grants to all her favours, none her heart;
Perverts the end of charming for the fame :
To fawn, her business, to deceive, her aim.
A Fair but Heartless one.
Whence comes my love? oh, heart, disclose,-
It was from cheeks that shamed the rose,
From lips that spoil the ruby's praise,
From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze,
Whence comes my woe? as freely own,―
Ah, me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
Tell me a thing she cannot dress,—
Soups, hashes, pickles, pudding, pies,
Nought comes amiss, she is so wise.
Her Hate tempered by Love.
Oh! woman wrong'd can cherish hate,
More deep and dark than manhood may;
But, when the mockery of fate
Hath left revenge its chosen way,
And the fell curse which years have nursed,
Full on the spoiler's head hath burst;
When all her wrong, and shame, and pain,
Burns fiercely on his heart and brain-
Still lingers something of the spell
Which bound her to the traitor's bosom ;
Still, 'midst the vengeful fires of hell,
Some flowers of old affection blossom.
Her Fulness of Heart.
A maid of fullest heart she was;
Her spirit's lovely flame
Nor dazzled nor surprised, because
It always burn'd the same.
And in the heaven-lit path she trod
Fair was the wife foreshown—
A Mary in the house of God,
Her Heart the Seat of Passion.
Woman may be a fickle thing, but it is where the captivation is of her fancy, not of her heart. Where she has
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