HELENA.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise

Of late all men have sounded. She for whom

Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb

Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long,

She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile

I find no fascination in her smile,

Although I make her theme of this poor song.

“Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair,

And yet to me each shining silken tress

Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless —

Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

( I know a little maiden so demure

She will not let her one true lover's hands

In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands,

So dainty-minded is she, and so pure. )

“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?

Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be,

And yet they are not beautiful to me.

Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

( I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid

So underneath white curtains, and so veiled

That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed

To see more than the shyly lifted lid. )

“Her perfect mouth so like a carvèd kiss?”

“Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?”

I would not taste its sweetness for a crown;

Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

( I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried,

Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet,

And though I plead in passion at her feet,

She would not let me brush it if I died. )

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie

For thy rare smile or die from loss of it,

Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit,

And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.