TERESA DI FAENZA.

If he should wed a woman like a flower,
Fresh as the dew and royal as a rose,
Veined with spring-fire, mesmeric in repose,
His world-vext brain to lull with mystic power,
Great-souled to track his flight through heavens starred,
Upborne by wings of trust and love, yet meek
As one who has no self-set goal to seek,
His inspiration and his best reward,
At once his Art's deep secret and clear crown,
His every-day made dream, his dream fulfilled,—
If such a wife he wooed to be his own,
God knows 'twere well. Even I no less had willed.
Yet, O my heart! wouldst thou for his dear sake
Frankly rejoice, or with self-pity break?

II.

What could I bring in dower? A restless heart,
As eager, ardent, hungry, as his own,
Face burned pale olive by our Southern sun,
A mind long used to musings grave apart.
Gold, noble name or fame I ne'er regret,
Albeit all are lacking; but the glow
Of spring-like beauty, but the overflow
Of simple, youthful joy. And yet—and yet—
A proud voice whispers: Vain may be his quest,
What fruit soe'er he pluck, what laurels green,
Through all the world, for just this prize unseen
I in my deep heart harbor quite unguessed:
I alone know what full hands I should bring
Were I to lay my wealth before my king.

Emma Lazarus.