THE CHOSEN ONE.
"Here's a long line of beauties—see!
Ay, and as varied as they're many—
Say, can I guess the one would be
Your choice among them all—if any?"
"I doubt it,—for I hold as dust
Charms many praise beyond all measure—
While gems they treat as lightly, must
Combine to form my chosen treasure."
"Will this do?"—"No;—that hair of gold,
That brow of snow, that eye of splendour,
Cannot redeem the mien so cold,
The air so stiff, so quite un-tender."
"This then?"—"Far worse! Can lips like these
Thus smile as though they asked the kiss?—
Thinks she that e'en such eyes can please,
Beaming—there is no word—like this?"
"Look on that singer at the harp,
Of her you cannot speak thus—ah, no!"
—"Her! why she's formed of flat and sharp—
I doubt not she's a fine soprano!"
"The next?"—"What, she who lowers her eyes
From sheer mock-modesty—so pert,
So doubtful-mannered?—I despise
Her, and all like her—she's a Flirt!
"And this is why my spleen's above
The power of words;—'tis that they can
Make the vile semblance be to Love
Just what the Monkey is to Man!
"But yonder I, methinks, can trace
One very different from these—
Her features speak—her form is Grace
Completed by the touch of Ease!
"That opening lip, that fine frank eye
Breathe Nature's own true gaiety—
So sweet, so rare when thus, that I
Gaze on't with joy, nay ecstacy!
"For when 'tis thus, you'll also see
That eye still richer gifts express—
And on that lip there oft will be
A sighing smile of tenderness!
"Yes! here a matchless spirit dwells
E'en for that lovely dwelling fit!—
I gaze on her—my bosom swells
With feelings, thoughts,——oh! exquisite!
"That such a being, noble, tender,
So fair, so delicate, so dear,
Would let one love her, and befriend her!—
—Ah, yes, my Chosen One is here!"
London Magazine.