Lines addressed to a Northern Beauty. 25 



Of blighting power hath prepar'd to nip 



His prouder hopes, hath he no kindred heart 



To feel, and dare, and die, as he would die ? 



Yes ! he has more than this ; a wife's true heart, 



The quenchless spirit of a woman's love, 



Is mirror 'd deeply in the fix'd, fond gaze 



Of yonder lady, who hath learnt to take 



A secretary's part for her dear lord, 



And will not leave him now, though all the world. 



With twice a thousand arms, should strive to tear 



That loving heart from his ! 



Still is her look 



Tender, and trustful, sweetly dash'd with grief, 

 Bent on her admir'd lord ; the raven locks 

 That cluster thickly o'er her brow of snow, 

 Are parted back to catch his faintest word, 

 And see the spirit of a noble pride, 

 That not the fear of his impending doom 

 Can wholly chase away, wreathes her full lip ! 

 And this is woman's love : in that acute gaze 

 Is feeling's depth and strength ; oh ! now methinkg 

 The mist of earthly hopes hath pass'd away 

 From her entranced sight, and that her soul 

 In the empyrean of a brighter space 

 Than this sad scene, is plumed to meet her lord's. 

 Alas, when freedom's altar is uprear'd 

 And men stand round with dark and lowering frowns, 

 Half shrinking from the shrine, and half prepar'd 

 To cast it once more down ; 'tis a sad chance 

 That holy blood must consecrate a rite 

 Which gives redemption to a future age: 

 Yet is its offering bless'd : a patriot's death 

 Illumes the dreary past, and casts a ray 

 O'er the dim aspect of forthcoming time. W. G. T. 



LINES 



ADDRESSED TO A NORTHERN BEAUTY. 



COLD is thine aspect in every look, 

 As the sleepy stream of a winter brook. 

 Cold are the glances that shoot from thine eye, 

 As the iceberg that floats the dark whale ship by. 

 Cold are the accents that dwell on thy lips 

 (Though sweet as the dew that the honey-bird sips, 

 Or the perfume that rises in summer showers, 

 Washed from the bloom of a thousand flowers). 

 Thy words are as passionless and chaste 

 As the moonbeam that falls on the midnight waste- 

 Like the frost-wind that blows from the chilly pole, 

 Seems the essence of thy inmost soul. 

 Though spotless thy name, and thy beauty as bright 

 As the mid-day beams of the sun's pure light, 

 I would not for Fortunatus's purse 

 Be shackled to thee for better for worse. 



