I looked for Beauty:—on a throne,
A dazzling throne of light, I found her;
And Music poured its softest tone
And flowers their sweetest breath, around her.
A score or two of idle gods,
Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants,
Were watching all her smiles and nods,
And making compliments and presents.
And first young Love, the rosy boy,
Exhibited his bow and arrows,
And gave her many a pretty toy,
Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows:
She told him, as he passed, she knew
Her court would scarcely do without him;
But yet—she hoped they were not true—
There were some awkward tales about him.
Wealth deemed that magic had no charm
More mighty than the gifts he brought her,
And linked around her radiant arm
Bright diamonds of the purest water:
The goddess, with a scornful touch,
Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter;
And said,—she thanked him very much,—
She liked a wreath of roses better.
Then Genius snatched his golden lute,
And told a tale of love and glory:
The crowd around were hushed and mute
To hear so sad and sweet a story;
And Beauty marked the minstrel’s cheek,
So very pale—no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week;
But really—he should change his tailor!
As died the echo of the strings,
A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her,
Looked all unutterable things,
And swore, to see was to adore her;
He called her veil a cruel cloud,
Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery:
She fancied it was Wit that bowed;—
I’m almost certain it was Flattery.
There was a beldame finding fault
With every person’s every feature:
And by the sneer, and by the halt,
I knew at once the odious creature:
“You see,” quoth Envy, “I am come
To bow—as is my bounden duty;—
They tell me Beauty is at home;—
Impossible! that can’t be Beauty!”
I heard a murmur far and wide
Of “Lord! how quick the dotard passes!”
As Time threw down at Beauty’s side
The prettiest of his clocks and glasses;
But it was noticed in the throng
How Beauty marred the maker’s cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;
And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.
Death, in a doctor’s wig and gown,
Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,
And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“Avaunt!” she cried,—“how came he here?
The frightful fiend! he’s my abhorrence!”
I went and whispered in her ear,
“He shall not hurt you!—sit to Lawrence!”