Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,

      Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

      Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain

That its mild light creates to heal again:

      E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,

      E'en then my soul with exultation dances

For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:

But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,

      Heavens! how desperately do I adore

Thy winning graces;—to be thy defender

      I hotly burn—to be a Calidore—

A very Red Cross Knight—a stout Leander—

      Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;

      Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,

      Are things on which the dazzled senses rest

Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.

From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare

      To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd

      They be of what is worthy,—though not drest

In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.

Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;

      These lures I straight forget,—e'en ere I dine,

Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark

      Such charms with mild intelligences shine,

My ear is open like a greedy shark,

      To catch the tunings of a voice divine.

Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being?

      Who can forget her half-retiring sweets?

      God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats

For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,

Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,

      Will never give him pinions, who intreats

      Such innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheats

A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeing

One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear

      A lay that once I saw her hand awake,

Her form seems floating palpable, and near;

      Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take

A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,

      And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.