That to itself it may thy charms confess,
And tell each grace with joyous eagerness,
As did the morning stars their anthems roll,
Or as the angels greet a ransom’d soul.
Such tongues alone could paint the loveliness
Which o’er thy face in sad, sweet beauty smiled;
As though in unseen wingings, ever near,
The Dove had coo’d a legend in thine ear
Of some rare tenderness to grief beguiled—
Perchance of love which bought redemption dear,