Woman! When I Behold Thee

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;Without that modest softening that enhancesThe downcast eye, repentant of the painThat its mild light creates to heal again:E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,E'en then my soul with exultation dancesFor that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,Heavens! how desperately do I adoreThy winning graces;—to be thy defenderI 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 restTill the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dareTo turn my admiration, though unpossess'dThey be of what is worthy,—though not drestIn 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 markSuch 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 bleatsFor man's protection. Surely the All-seeing,Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,Will never give him pinions, who intreatsSuch innocence to ruin,—who vilely cheatsA dove-like bosom. In truth there is no freeingOne's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hearA lay that once I saw her hand awake,Her form seems floating palpable, and near;Had I e'er seen her from an arbour takeA dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.