Showing her gossips the gold chain, which lay
Cradled upon a bosom, whiter far
Than the pure lawn that kerchieft it.

A BEAUTY.

Had a limner's hand
Traced such a heavenly brow, and such a lip,
I would have sworn the knave had dreamt it all
In some fair vision of some fairer world.
See how she stands, all shrined in loveliness;
Her white hands clasped; her clustering locks thrown back
From her high forehead; and in those bright eyes
Tears! radiant emanations! drops of light!
That fall from those surpassing orbs as though
The starry eyes of heaven wept silver dew.

A BETROTHED LOVER'S FAREWELL.

Ay; but ere I go, perchance for ever, lady,
Unto the land, whose dismal tales of battles,
Where thousands strew'd the earth, have christen'd it
The Frenchman's grave; I'd speak of such a theme
As chimes with this sad hour, more fitly than
Its name gives promise. There's a love, which born
In early days, lives on through silent years,
Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow,
When it shows brightest: like the trembling light
Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face
Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare.