One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

I saw thee weep—the big bright tear

Came o'er that eye of blue:

And then methought it did appear

A violet dropping dew;

I saw thee smile—the sapphire's blaze

Beside thee ceased to shine,

It could not match the living rays

That fill'd that glance of thine.

As clouds from yonder sun receive

A deep and mellow die,

Which scarce the shade of coming eve

Can banish from the sky,

Those smiles unto the moodiest mind

Their own pure joy impart;

Their sunshine leaves a glow behind

That lightens o'er the heart.

I have observed your sex, once roused to wrath,

Are timidly vindictive to a pitch

Of perseverance, which I would not copy.

She was pensive more than melancholy,

And serious more than pensive, and serene,

It may be, more than either …

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly

Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen,

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall;

She never thought about herself at all.

A learned lady, famed

For every branch of every science known—

In every Christian language ever named,

With virtues equall'd by her wit alone.

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed,

And even the good with inward envy groan,

Finding themselves so very much exceeded

In their own way by all the things that she did.

'Tis pity learned virgins ever wed

With persons of no sort of education,

Or gentlemen who, though well-born and bred,

Grow tired of scientific conversation:

Oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual,

Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger

Is woman? what a whirlwind is her head,

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger

Is all the rest about her! whether wed,

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her

Mind like the wind; whatever she has said

Or done, is light to what she'll say or do;—

The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

Round her she made an atmosphere of life,

The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes,

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife

With all we can imagine of the skies;—

Her overpowering presence made you feel,

It would not be idolatry to kneel.

Through her eye the Immortal shone;

Her eyes' dark charm 'twere vain to tell,

But gaze on that of the gazelle,

It will assist thy fancy well;

As large, as languishingly dark,

But soul beamed forth in every spark

That darted from beneath the lid,

Bright as the jewel of Giamschid,

Yea, soul!

So—this feminine farewell

Ends as such partings end, in no departure.

Her accents stole

On the dark visions of their soul,

And bade their mournful musings fly,

Like mist before the zephyr's sigh.

There was a soft and pensive grace,

A cast of thought upon her face,

That suited well the forehead high,

The eye-lash dark, and downcast eye;

The mild expression spoke a mind

In duty firm, composed, resign'd.

The rose, with faint and feeble streak

So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek,

That you had said her hue was pale;

But if she faced the summer-gale,

Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved,

Or heard the praise of those she loved,

Or when of interest was express'd

Aught that waked feeling in her breast,

That mantling blood in ready play

Rivall'd the blush of rising day.