Page:Heath's Book of Beauty 1833.pdf/5

52

No varying hues, from red to pale, Thy inward feelings speak. Thine atmosphere is festival; Thy hand is on the lute; And lightest in the midnight dance We see thy fairy foot. The many deem this happiness— I see it is a task; Young without youth, gay without mirth, Thine is the veil and mask. I mark thy constant restlessness, Thy eagerness for change; I know it is the wretched one Who thus desires to range. And thou dost flee from solitude As if a fiend were there, And communing with thine own thoughts Were more than thou couldst bear. Slight are the signs by which I put Thy mask and veil aside, And look upon thy wounded love, And on thy wounded pride. 'Tis not for one, proud, fair, like thee To perish or to pine; A higher lot is cast for thee— A higher will is thine! Oh! misery to keep the heart Lone, like some sacred fane, And when it owns its deity, Find it was own'd in vain!