The Poets and Poetry of America/To a Face Beloved

The music of the waken'd lyre Dies not upon the quivering strings, Nor burns alone the minstrel's fire Upon the lip that trembling sings; Nor shines the moon in heaven unseen, Nor shuts the flower its fragrant cells, Nor sleeps the fountain's wealth, I ween, Forever in its sparry wells; The spells of the enchanter lie Not on his own lone heart, his own rapt ear and eye.

I look upon a face as fair As ever made a lip of heaven Falter amid its music-prayer! The first-lit star of summer even Springs not so softly on the eye, Nor grows, with watching, half so bright, Nor, mid its sisters of the sky, So seems of heaven the dearest light; Men murmur where that face is seen— My youth's angelic dream was of that look and mien.

Yet, though we deem the stars are blest, And envy, in our grief, the flower That bears but sweetness in its breast, And fear'd the enchanter for his power, And love the minstrel for his spell He winds out of his lyre so well; The stars are almoners of light, The lyrist of melodious air, The fountain of its waters bright, And every thing most sweet and fair Of that by which it charms the ear, The eye of him that passes near; A lamp is lit in woman's eye That souls, else lost on earth, remember angels by.