Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1826.pdf/18

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likeness! why it is a vain endeavour To image it. Painting or words may never Say what she was; yet dwell I on the task, As if that Poesy had a right to ask From Memory its treasure. She was fair:— Vague words! that is but what a thousand are. I will be more distinct: her face was fine And perfect, in its soften'd Grecian line. The temples were transparent, and so white, That the blue veins ran through like rays of light. The brow was noble, queen-like, somewhat proud, But this seem'd as it were of right allow'd— For mind was in its beauty, and you gazed On its high meaning till no more amazed At what seem'd History's fiction,—when that queen— Martyr—and heroine—woman—by turns had been. I heard she was unhappy, and I checkt My eager gaze at first; she might suspect— For sorrow brings distrust—that it was less Pity for her than idle curiousness. This wore away; and then I loved to dwell On beauty, that to me was all a spell. How did I watch upon her soft eyes' keep, Half-hidden by the eyelids' fringed sweep, Which seem'd as if they hid from daylight's glare The mournful meanings settled darkly there:— The heart's deep-spreading sadness, till it made The very light around perpetual shade! But 'tis her voice that haunts me,—that low tone, Melting as Woman's, Love's, or Pity's own— Like silver tuned to music, or a bird Gifted with human language—but each word As sweet as any note that might belong To the first murmur of a Minstrel' song. I loved her with youth's first and fiery love, That holds its own divinity above All things which are of earth, yet not the less For this, I loved with manhood's steadiness; And yet it lives, though now its only food Is memory.IOLE.