Book 2 — LINES TO A PORTRAIT.

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BY A. C. AINSWORTH.

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It must be life which sits upon that brow

So calm—so full of mind’s nobility:

For I do gaze with homage even now,

As if her living lustre beamed on me.

There sleep the folds of her unrivalled hair—

There bloom those lips whose charm no words may speak,

And her divinest smile, which mocks at care,

Blends sweetly with the tints which clothe her cheek.

Rich rooms were lighted, and I wandered long,

Seeking a solace with the fair and bright;

But ever, as I moved amid the throng,

Thy large eyes haunted with their gentle light.

Ev’n through my fevered sleep, in wildest dreams,

Those features all seem’d over me to brood:

Alas! when midnight fails to hide those gleams,

How vainly seeks the heart a solitude!

But she was there—thy living counterpart:

Why gaze on thee, when I might look on her?

Ah, often in this world, the mourning heart

Seeks least, thro’ fear, the things it would prefer!

For when unto my lip there rose the jest,

And I seemed coldest, to the throng around,

Then most love burned within my wearied breast,

And strongest, with its chain, my heart was bound.

As o’er Italian seas the “Vesper Hymn”

Comes gently:—so her voice in music stole;

My tongue did falter, and mine eyes grew dim;

For fainting joy was throned within my soul.

I all forget the end; how we did part;

Or if she frowned on me—or if she smiled;

I slept with her bright image in my heart,

And the fair morning found me chained—beguiled!