lovely all--
Thou'lt have no peer at that gay ball!
And that proud toss!--it makes thee smile
To see how deep is thine own wile;
And that slow look that seems to stray
As each sweet feature made it stay--
And that small finger, lightly laid
On dimpled cheek and glossy braid,
As if to know that all they seem
Is really there, and not a dream--
I wish I knew the gentle thought
By all this living beauty wrought!
I wish I knew if that sweet brow,
That neck on which thou gazest now--
If thy rich lip and brilliant face--
Thy perfect figure's breezy grace--
If these are half the spell to thee
That will, this night, bewilder me!

TO A BELLE.

All that thou art, I thrillingly
And sensibly do feel;
For my eye doth see, and my ear doth hear,
And my heart is not of steel;
I meet thee in the festal hall--
I turn thee in the dance--
And I wait, as would a worshipper,
The giving of thy glance.

Thy beauty is as undenied
As the beauty of a star;
And thy heart beats just as equally,
Whate'er thy praises are;
And so long without a parallel
Thy loveliness hath shone,
That, follow'd like the tided moon,
Thou mov'st as calmly on.

Thy worth I, for myself, have seen--
I know that thou art leal;
Leal to a woman's gentleness,
And thine own spirit's weal;
Thy thoughts are deeper than a dream,
And holier than gay;
And thy mind is a harp of gentle strings,
Where angel fingers play.

I know all this--I feel all this--
And my heart believes it true;
And my fancy hath often borne me on,
As a lover's fancies do;
And I have a heart, that is strong and deep,
And would love with its human all,
And it waits for a fetter that's sweet to wear,
And would bound to a silken thrall.

But it loves not thee.--It would sooner bind
Its thoughts to the open sky;
It would worship as soon a familiar star,
That is bright to every eye.
'Twere to love the wind that is sweet to all--
The wave of the beautiful sea--
'Twere to hope for all the light in Heaven,
To hope for the love of thee.

But wert thou lowly--yet leal as now;
Rich but in thine own mind;
Humble--in all but the queenly brow;
And to thine own glory blind--
Were the worl