I WOULD NOT FLATTER THEE.

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!