How bright in early bloom the Georgian sitteth at her lattice,
How softened off in graceful curves her young and gentle shape:
Those dark eyes, lit by curiosity, flash beneath the lashes,
And still her velvet cheek is dimpled with a smile.
Dost thou count her beautiful?—even as a mere fair figure,
A plastic image, little more,—the outer garb of woman:
Yea,—and thus far it is well; but Reason's hopes are higher,—
Can he sate his soul on a scantling third of beauty?
Yet is this the pleasing trickery, that cheateth half the world,
Nature's wise deceit to make up waste in life;