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1825.] Contrasting the brawn beauty of her face. Oh, what a face that was!—ideal truth Ne'er poised so justly the well-mated features— All moulded as in England's happiest country, Where man's eye roams bewitch'd.—But naught of fair, If cold and pale mean fair, beam'd through the rose Of her rich royal cheek: And on her front, Though lofty and polish'd, no pure pearl had fear'd To hang outrivall'd,—save it hung too near The pearly lakes where her black eye-balls swam; Nay, they swam not: Fix'd and serene they gleam'd Through her complexion's clear and cloudless hazel And under her black but evenly bent brows— And over her blush, that on the bright brown skin Bloom'd like a rose-bush in a hyacinth bed. Black as the brambleberry—or her eyes— The long wreath'd locks, some braided, on her head Were knotted,—and her very face had blanch'd, But for the thin white snowy gown, which clung, In small folds, her dark billowy breasts about— And little low-curved shoulders—and slight waist— And roundly, slowly tapering limbs—and last Flow'd back from one bare forward foot, so small, So delicate, it seem'd to spot, not hide, The moonlit floor below it. Not my first— My second—or third glance caught the whole grace Of that unworldlike statue that stood rooted In the mid chamber, with the sorcery glare Of its so stirless eyes, enchaining me In wonder and in awe there. Fear's chill damp Impearl'd my brow,—but yet my quivering lip Burn'd with that queenlike ghost's so marvellous beauty On which I gazed. She spake no word to me— She made no sign, but gazed me, as I were A thing of naught: then lift her face, as out On the sky to look; but her black lifeless eyes Unseeing seem'd, and on their orbs the light Smote and sate stirlessly. But mine methought Would crack their strings, so strain'd they after that Superior essence bodied in my presence. She moved towards the altar-table, and sigh'd,— She bow'd her head in prayer, and slightly sobb'd; She look'd up to the crucifix and smiled— The image of the crucifix, that from The holy cross seem'd smiling on her worship: And I meanwhile could move not from my place, Such influence was upon me; nor mine eyes Could from the white curve of her kneeling figure Unlock themselves. Her silent orisons, It seems, were finish'd; for the spirit raised Up the dusk splendour of her meek mild face, The eyelids as before widedrawn, the eyes Gleaming in ghostly fixedness. A couch Stood by the further wainscot; thither moved she: There those luxurious limbs were loosely laid— Modestly wimpled, save one elegant ankle: She slept, or rather seem'd to sleep;—her lips Murmur'd as though she were a creature of mind— With sounds of melody, but not quite meaning; And, as they sunder'd, lo! like daisies wreathed 'Mong red carnations, lay within their red The glossy teeth. I durst not stir. I durst