SHE is not fashioned to command,
Nor once, for grace, in her is shown,
A form that peers the lily-wand—
An air the lily's self might own;
Not such her vaunt, tho' such enchant,
Nay, make with joy the reason reel,
'Tis hers to bear a boon more rare,—
A heart another's woe to feel.

Nor hers the hair that beams afar
Like streams of molten gold—an eye—
That twinkles like the little star
Attends the virgin moon on high;
Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt
Whoe'er her gentle smile has viewed;
That smile would light the gloom would
blight
A heart with lion-nerve endued.

Not hers the golden tones that break
Like music from the lips, the rare—
The dancing dimple on the cheek
Accorded to the fabled fair;
Not such her vaunt—nay, pride might taunt
Her with a lack of charms—yet oh!
She's to the faint and weak a saint
Ordained to bless this world below.