Poems (Osgood)/Lenore
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LENORE
Oh! fragile and fair, as the delicate chalices,
Wrought with so rare and so subtle a skill,
Bright relies, that tell of the pomp of those palaces,
Venice—the sea-goddess—glories in still.
Wrought with so rare and so subtle a skill,
Bright relies, that tell of the pomp of those palaces,
Venice—the sea-goddess—glories in still.
Whose exquisite texture, transparent and tender,
A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes;
Yet ah! if some false hand, profaning its splendor,
Dares but to taint it with poison,—it breaks!
A pure blush alone from the ruby wine takes;
Yet ah! if some false hand, profaning its splendor,
Dares but to taint it with poison,—it breaks!
So when Love pour'd thro' thy pure heart his lightning,
On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke,—
So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening,
Poison'd the treasure—it trembled and broke!
On thy pale cheek the soft rose-hues awoke,—
So when wild Passion, that timid heart frightening,
Poison'd the treasure—it trembled and broke!