A Sketch From Life.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph     Or naad, on the mossy, purpled bank     Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet     Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.     Or like those shapes that on the western clouds     Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,     And teach the evening winds their melody:     How shall I tell her beauty?--for the eye,     Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.     One glance, and then no more, upon that brow     Brighter than marble shining through those curls,     Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells     In the low breathing of the twilight wind.--     One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue     The morning rose would sicken and grow pale,     'Till it was waked again by the soft breath     That steals in music from those lips of love.     Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee,     But in thy living beauty there is awe;     The sacredness of modesty enshrines     The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;--     I dare but worship what I must not love.