BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENUS.

Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she

That those soft fringes timidly should fall

Before her, and thy spiritual brow

Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud?

A loftier gift is thine than she can give —

That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow

To perfectness, and give unto the form

A beautiful proportion; she may stain

The eye with a celestial blue — the cheek

With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe

Grace into every motion, like the play

Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;

She may give all that is within her own

Bright cestus — and one silent look of thine,

Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.

Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,

The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,

Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,

Or color, but the beautiful links that chain

The mind from its rare element? There lies

A talisman in intellect which yields

Celestial music, when the master hand

Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath

The outward semblance, and to common sight

Is an invisible and hidden thing;

But when the lip is faded, and the cheek

Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form

Witches the sense no more, and human love

Falters in its idolatry, this spell

Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on

Stealing anew the affections.

Marvel not

That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.

He hath found out the loveliness of mind,

And he is spoilt for beauty. So‘ twill be

Ever — the glory of the human form

Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop

When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind

Perisheth not, and when the outward charm

Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,

And is the lovelier that it slept so long —

Like wells that by the wasting of their flow

Have had their deeper fountains broken up.