TO A BELLE.

All that thou art, I thrillingly

And sensibly do feel;

For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,

And my heart is not of steel;

I meet thee in the festal hall —

I turn thee in the dance —

And I wait, as would a worshipper,

The giving of thy glance.

Thy beauty is as undenied

As the beauty of a star;

And thy heart beats just as equally,

Whate'er thy praises are;

And so long without a parallel

Thy loveliness hath shone,

That, follow'd like the tided moon,

Thou mov'st as calmly on.

Thy worth I, for myself, have seen —

I know that thou art leal;

Leal to a woman's gentleness,

And thine own spirit's weal;

Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,

And holier than gay;

And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,

Where angel fingers play.

I know all this — I feel all this —

And my heart believes it true;

And my fancy hath often borne me on,

As a lover's fancies do;

And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,

And would love with its human all,

And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,

And would bound to a silken thrall.

But it loves not thee.— It would sooner bind

Its thoughts to the open sky;

It would worship as soon a familiar star,

That is bright to every eye.

‘ Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all —

The wave of the beautiful sea —

‘ Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,

To hope for the love of thee.

But wert thou lowly — yet leal as now;

Rich but in thine own mind;

Humble — in all but the queenly brow;

And to thine own glory blind —

Were the world to prove but a faithless thing,

And worshippers leave thy shrine —

My love were, then, but a gift for thee,

And my strong deep heart were thine.