I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, The grace of parting Infancy By blushes yet untam'd; Age faithful to the mother's knee, Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet Such beauty hath th' Eternal pour'd Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Doth here preserve a living light, Of Palestine, of glory past, A PORTRAIT. A PORTRAIT. SHE was a phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; I saw her upon nearer view, A countenance in which did meet And now I see with eye serene LUCY. THREE years Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; She shall be mine, and I will make Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn And hers shall be the breathing balm, Of mute insensate things. The Floating Clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend: Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The Stars of Midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where Rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. SONNET. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Here in this happy Dell." Thus Nature spoke.-The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1503. EARTH has not any thing to show more fair: All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. LAMB. HESTER.-A REMEMBRANCE. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, A month or more hath she been dead, To think upon the wormy bed A springy motion in her gait, Of pride and joy no common rate, I know not by what name beside Her parents held the Quaker rule, But she was train'd in Nature's school, A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. |