To an Old Venetian Painting

Who was she—this rare Beauty of appealing face?... The eyes are laden with the weight of Love’s fond burden, The heart, with tremulous hope of Love’s alluring guerdon. Had she some wound,—some grief which nothing could erase,— She whose impassioned look is raised in suppliant grace? Perhaps some erring penitent in saintly adoration, Or Doge’s wilful daughter offering supplication In all the sumptuous beauty of her languorous race? The plaintive mouth is saddened now from farewell-taking, The sob still lingers in her smile,—the eyes brim o’er, As if sweet love, with her, had broken faith and trust. How could such beauty be unless her heart were breaking?... Peace! draw the veil: seek no revealment: ask no more: Such loveliness shall sanctify her very dust.