‘NOT BEAUTIFUL!’

They say thou art not beautiful.

To me thou art most fair!

And shrined within my faithful heart,

Thine image dear I wear.

In every glance, in every smile,

I see a nameless grace;

For love of mine, an angel’s soul

Shines through thy mortal face!

Thy hand is rough, and brown with toil,

Yet soft as summer rain;

With light and soothing touch it falls

Upon the brow of pain:

The sufferer feels its healing power

Rob death of half its sting,

And deems that little toil-stained hand

White as an angel’s wing.

And, sweetheart mine, no wildering lights

Flash from thy modest eyes;

Too timid is their downcast glance,

To startle or surprise;

Yet would I have them shining near,

To watch me when I pray,

To keep my heart from worldly thoughts,

Sweet eyes of gentle gray.

No modern fashions mar thy robe,

So softly flowing down;

Yet hangs a nameless dignity

Around that simple gown.

No pretty simpering queen of art,

Nor slave to fashion thou;

Thy pure and gracious womanhood

Is written on thy brow.

A throne of thought, that virgin brow

Hides in thy clustering hair,

Of ample breadth, that life may trace

Its noblest records there.

‘Not beautiful!’—my peerless queen!

What idle words they speak!

Who may not mark Love’s dawning blush

Shy mantling o’er thy cheek?

‘Not beautiful!’—my best beloved!

If sweet and humble worth

Crowns not with perfect loveliness,

Then nought is fair on earth.

The children fly from fairer forms,

To cluster round thy knee;

And that they deem thee beautiful,

By their fond looks I see!

My only love! I would not dare

To change thee if I could;

To me thou art most beautiful,

Because thou art so good.

To me thy gentle face must be

The loveliest ever seen—

The fairest face in all the world,

My love, my star, my queen!

Fanny Forrester.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.