Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/444



quaint conceit of speech, No golden, minted phrase— Dame Nature needs to teach To echo Woman's praise; Pure love and truth unite To do thee, Woman, right!

She is the faithful mirror Of thoughts that brightest be— Of feelings without error, Of matchless constancie; When art essays to render More glorious Heaven's bow— To paint the virgin splendour Of fresh-fallen mountain snow— New fancies will I find, To laud true Woman's mind.

No words can lovelier make Virtue's all-lovely name,