John Fountain.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.
“Call back your odours, lonely flowers,
From the night-wind call them back;
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours
Come forth in the sunbeam’s track.
The lark lies couched in her grassy nest,
And the honey-bee is gone;
And all bright things are away to rest—
Why watch ye here alone?”
Nay, let our shadowy beauty bloom,
When the stars give quiet light;
And let us offer our faint perfume
On the silent shrine of night.
Call it not wasted the scent we lend
To the breeze when no step is nigh;
Oh! thus for ever the earth should send
Her grateful breath on high!
And love us as emblems, night’s dewy flowers,
Of hopes unto sorrows given,
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours,
Looking alone to Heaven.
Mrs. Hemans.
That modest grace subdued my soul,
That chastity of look which seems to hang
A veil of purest light o’er all her beauties,
And by forbidding most inflames desire.
Young.
He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast modesty concealed.
Thomson.
