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154
A BRIDE.
Eyes which fill us with tender pain,
So bewitching their mellow shine.—
Winning all gazers again and again
To bow in vain at their lovely shrine.
So bewitching their mellow shine.—
Winning all gazers again and again
To bow in vain at their lovely shrine.
Never were human lips before
So rarely moulded in any land;
Never a shoulder such dimples bore,—
And look at her dainty, peach-bloom hand
So rarely moulded in any land;
Never a shoulder such dimples bore,—
And look at her dainty, peach-bloom hand
Flushing with young life, pure and rich.
Warm and pink to the pearly nails;—
The listening Venus in yonder niche
Tries to rival their charm,—but fails.
Warm and pink to the pearly nails;—
The listening Venus in yonder niche
Tries to rival their charm,—but fails.
Yet how pulseless and still she stands!
Never a blush is on her cheek,
Never a tremble along her hands!
Say, can she love, or weep, or speak?
Never a blush is on her cheek,
Never a tremble along her hands!
Say, can she love, or weep, or speak?
Was she spoken at once to life,
Every dimple, and tint, and curl
Always a possible queen or wife,
Never a babe, or a bashful girl?
Every dimple, and tint, and curl
Always a possible queen or wife,
Never a babe, or a bashful girl?
