Now boast, for well thou may'st. Say that alone Of all thy sex art thou to whom I bent My haughty head, to whom I gladly gave My heart in homage. Say that thou wert first (And last, I truly hope), to see mine eyes' Imploring gaze, and me before thee stand Timid and fearful (as I write, I burn With wrath and shame); me of myself deprived, Each look of thine, each gesture and each word Observing meekly; at thy haughty freaks Pale and subdued; then radiant with delight At any sign of favour, changing hue At every glance of thine. The charm is gone; And with it shattered, falls the heavy yoke, Whence I rejoice. Though weariness be with me, Yet after such delirium and long thraldom Gladly my freedorh I again embrace And my unshackled mind. For if a life Void of affections and of errors sweet, Be like a starless night in winter's depth, Revenge sufficient and sufficient balm It is to me that here upon the grass Leisurely lying and unmoved, I gaze On sky, earth, ocean, and serenely smile. ON THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN ENGRAVEN ON HER TOMB. Such was on earth thy form, But the unpitying storm Of Death resolved thy beauty into dust. Dumb witness of the flight of ages here, This image of thy perished loveliness Stands all unmoved, as though it held in trust The guardianship of memory and pain, Above the ashes that alone remain Of those sweet charms that did thy being bless. That tender gaze, thrilling as though with fear The eyes it pierced, as now it seems to do; Those lips, abundant with the wealth of pleasure; That neck, encircled by desire's fond arms; That hand, Love's richest treasure, Which when it clasped, responsive pressure knew; And that fair bosom whose celestial charms Gave those who saw a wan and pallid hue From the excess of their adoring passion: Once were as lovely as these sculptures fashion; But all that now is left on earth of thee Is dust and ashes which we may not see; Thy monument to ages that ensue Conceals the mournful vision from our view. Thus Fate doth touch and crumble into dust Whatever must unto our minds appear Image of Heaven most precious and most dear. Oh mystery eternal of the world! Now fount and treasure of stupendous thought, Beauty appears in majesty sublime, Even as a Queen in regal robes empearled, And seems on earth a heavenly splendour brought From fairer realms beyond the bounds of time; She seems to give us hope Of fates that can with mortal sorrow cope, Of happier homes and planets more divine Where golden splendours shine; But on the morrow, feeble though the blow Which struck her so that she declines and dies, Dreadful to see and abject in our eyes Becomes that peerless beauty which before