Poems | Page 7

the gilding on the
psaltery? 'Tis not for her to hold that prize a prize, Or praise much
praise, though proudest in its wise, To which even hopes of merely
women rise. Such strife would to the vanquished laurels yield, Against
HER suffered to have lost a field. Herself must with herself be sole
compeer, Unless the people of her distant sphere Some gold migration
send to melodise the year. But first our hearts must burn in larger guise,
To reformate the uncharitable skies, And so the deathless plumage to
acclimatise: Since this, their sole congener in our clime, Droops her sad,
ruffled thoughts for half the shivering time.
Yet I have felt what terrors may consort In women's cheeks, the Graces'
soft resort; My hand hath shook at gentle hands' access, And trembled
at the waving of a tress; My blood known panic fear, and fled dismayed,
Where ladies' eyes have set their ambuscade. The rustle of a robe hath
been to me The very rattle of love's musketry; Although my heart hath
beat the loud advance, I have recoiled before a challenging glance,

Proved gay alarms where warlike ribbons dance. And from it all, this
knowledge have I got, - The whole that others have, is less than they
have not; All which makes other women noted fair, Unnoted would
remain and overshone in her.
How should I gauge what beauty is her dole, Who cannot see her
countenance for her soul; As birds see not the casement for the sky?
And as 'tis check they prove its presence by, I know not of her body till
I find My flight debarred the heaven of her mind. Hers is the face
whence all should copied be, Did God make replicas of such as she; Its
presence felt by what it does abate, Because the soul shines through
tempered and mitigate: Where--as a figure labouring at night Beside the
body of a splendid light - Dark Time works hidden by its luminousness;
And every line he labours to impress Turns added beauty, like the veins
that run Athwart a leaf which hangs against the sun.
There regent Melancholy wide controls; There Earth- and Heaven-Love
play for aureoles; There Sweetness out of Sadness breaks at fits, Like
bubbles on dark water, or as flits A sudden silver fin through its deep
infinites; There amorous Thought has sucked pale Fancy's breath, And
Tenderness sits looking toward the lands of death There Feeling stills
her breathing with her hand, And Dream from Melancholy part wrests
the wand And on this lady's heart, looked you so deep, Poor Poetry has
rocked himself to sleep: Upon the heavy blossom of her lips Hangs the
bee Musing; nigh her lids eclipse Each half-occulted star beneath that
lies; And in the contemplation of those eyes, Passionless passion, wild
tranquillities.

EPILOGUE--TO THE POET'S SITTER, Wherein he excuseth himself
for the manner of the Portrait.

Alas! now wilt thou chide, and say (I deem), My figured descant hides
the simple theme: Or in another wise reproving, say I ill observe thine
own high reticent way. Oh, pardon, that I testify of thee What thou
couldst never speak, nor others be!
Yet (for the book is not more innocent Of what the gazer's eyes makes
so intent), She will but smile, perhaps, that I find my fair Sufficing
scope in such strait theme as her. "Bird of the sun! the stars' wild
honey-bee! Is your gold browsing done so thoroughly? Or sinks a

singed wing to narrow nest in me?" (Thus she might say: for not this
lowly vein Out-deprecates her deprecating strain.) Oh, you mistake,
dear lady, quite; nor know Ether was strict as you, its loftiness as low!
The heavens do not advance their majesty Over their marge; beyond his
empery The ensigns of the wind are not unfurled, His reign is hooped
in by the pale o' the world. 'Tis not the continent, but the contained,
That pleasaunce makes or prison, loose or chained. Too much alike or
little captives me, For all oppression is captivity. What groweth to its
height demands no higher; The limit limits not, but the desire. Give but
my spirit its desired scope, - A giant in a pismire, I not grope; Deny
it,--and an ant, with on my back A firmament, the skiey vault will crack.
Our minds make their own Termini, nor call The issuing
circumscriptions great or small; So high constructing Nature lessons to
us all: Who optics gives accommodate to see Your countenance large
as looks the sun to be, And distant greatness less than near humanity.
We, therefore, with a sure instinctive mind, An equal spaciousness of
bondage find In confines far or near, of air or our own kind. Our looks
and longings, which affront