‘Tis a dark and flashing eye,
Shadows, too, that tenderly,
With almost female softness, come
O'er its glance of flame and gloom.
His cheek is pale: or toil or care,
Or midnight study, has been there,
Making its young colours dull,
Yet leaving it most beautiful.
Such a lie! Oh, poured from thence,
Lava floods of eloquence
Come with fiery energy,
Like those words that cannot die;
Words the Grecian Warrior spoke
When the Persian's chain he broke;
And that low and honey tone,
Making woman's heart his own,
Such as should be heard at night
In the dim and sweet starlight:
Sounds that haunt a beauty's sleep,
Treasures for her heart to keep,
Suited for the citron shade,
Or the soft voiced serenade.
Raven curls their shadows throw
O'er a high and haughty brow,
Lighted by a smile, whose spell
Words are powerless to tell.—
Such the image in my heart,—
Painter, try thy glorious art! ⁠L. E. L.