  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 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. |
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