| |
| THERE is a sweetness in woman’s decay, | |
| When the light of beauty is fading away, | |
| When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, | |
| And the tint that glow’d, and the eye that shone, | |
| And darted around its glance of power, | 5 |
| And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower, | |
| That ever in Pæstum’s garden blew, | |
| Or ever was steep’d in fragrant dew, | |
| When all that was bright and fair, has fled, | |
| But the loveliness lingering round the dead. | 10 |
| O! there is a sweetness in beauty’s close, | |
| Like the perfume scenting the wither’d rose; | |
| For a nameless charm around her plays, | |
| And her eyes are kindled with hallow’d rays, | |
| And a veil of spotless purity | 15 |
| Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, | |
| Like a cloud whereon the queen of night | |
| Has pour’d her softest tint of light; | |
| And there is a blending of white and blue, | |
| Where the purple blood is melting through | 20 |
| The snow of her pale and tender cheek; | |
| And there are tones, that sweetly speak | |
| Of a spirit, who longs for a purer day, | |
| And is ready to wing her flight away. | |
| In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, | 25 |
| When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing | |
| Its silent steps through a flowery path, | |
| And all the endearments, that pleasure hath, | |
| Are pour’d from her full, o’erflowing horn, | |
| When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, | 30 |
| In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song | |
| The maiden may trip in the dance along, | |
| And think of the passing moment, that lies | |
| Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes, | |
| And yield to the present, that charms around | 35 |
| With all that is lovely in sight and sound, | |
| Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit, | |
| With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, | |
| And the music that steals to the bosom’s core, | |
| And the heart in its fulness flowing o’er | 40 |
| With a few big drops, that are soon repress’d, | |
| For short is the stay of grief in her breast: | |
| In this enliven’d and gladsome hour | |
| The spirit may burn with a brighter power; | |
| But dearer the calm and quiet day, | 45 |
| When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away. | |
| And when her sun is low declining, | |
| And life wears out with no repining, | |
| And the whisper, that tells of early death, | |
| Is soft as the west wind’s balmy breath, | 50 |
| When it comes at the hour of still repose, | |
| To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose, | |
| And the lip, that swell’d with a living glow, | |
| Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow; | |
| And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, | 55 |
| But the hectic spot that flushes there, | |
| When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling, | |
| In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, | |
| And giving a tinge to her icy lips, | |
| Like the crimson rose’s brightest tips, | 60 |
| As richly red and as transient too, | |
| As the clouds, in autumn sky of blue, | |
| That seem like a host of glory met | |
| To honor the sun at his golden set: | |
| O! then, when the spirit is taking wing, | 65 |
| How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling, | |
| As if she would blend her soul with his | |
| In a deep and long imprinted kiss; | |
| So fondly the panting camel flies, | |
| Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes, | 70 |
| And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, | |
| And the infant shrinks to his mother’s breast. | |
| And though her dying voice be mute, | |
| Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, | |
| And though the glow from her cheek be fled, | 75 |
| And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, | |
| Her eye still beams unwonted fires | |
| With a woman’s love and a saint’s desires, | |
| And her last fond, lingering look is given | |
| To the love she leaves, and then to heaven, | 80 |
| As if she would bear that love away | |
| To a purer world and a brighter day. | |
| |
