Lady! in whose heroic port

And Beauty, Victor even of Time,

And haughty lineaments, appear

Much that is awful, more that's dear—

Wherever human hearts resort

There must have been for thee a Court,

And Thou by acclamation Queen,

Where never Sovereign yet had been.

That eye so soft, and yet severe,

Perchance might look on Love as Crime;

And yet—regarding thee more near—

The traces of an unshed tear

Compressed back to the heart,

And mellowed Sadness in thine air,

Which shows that Love hath once been there,

To those who watch thee will disclose

More than ten thousand tomes of woes

Wrung from the vain Romancer's art.

With thee how proudly Love hath dwelt!

His full Divinity was felt,

Maddening the heart he could not melt,

Till Guilt became Sublime;

But never yet did Beauty's Zone

For him surround a lovelier throne,

Than in that bosom once his own:

And he the Sun and Thou the Clime

Together must have made a Heaven

For which the Future would be given.