Psyche, Before The Tribunal Of Venus.

Lift up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she     That those soft fringes timidly should fall     Before her, and thy spiritual brow     Be shadowed as her presence were a cloud?     A loftier gift is thine than she can give -     That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow     To perfectness, and give unto the form     A beautiful proportion; she may stain     The eye with a celestial blue - the cheek     With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe     Grace into every motion, like the play     Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;     She may give all that is within her own     Bright cestus - and one silent look of thine,     Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.     Ay, for the soul is better than its frame,     The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,     Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,     Or color, but the beautiful links that chain     The mind from its rare element? There lies     A talisman in intellect which yields     Celestial music, when the master hand     Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath     The outward semblance, and to common sight     Is an invisible and hidden thing;     But when the lip is faded, and the cheek     Robbed of its daintiness, and when the form     Witches the sense no more, and human love     Falters in its idolatry, this spell     Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on     Stealing anew the affections.                                  Marvel not     That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.     He hath found out the loveliness of mind,     And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be     Ever - the glory of the human form     Is but a perishing thing, and Love will droop     When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind     Perisheth not, and when the outward charm     Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,     And is the lovelier that it slept so long -     Like wells that by the wasting of their flow     Have had their deeper fountains broken up.