Sweet Fanny, though I know you not, And I have never seen the splendor That flashes from your hazel eyes To make the souls of men surrender; Though, when they ask me how you look, I’m forced to say “I never met her,” I hope you will not deem it wrong If I address to you a letter. Here in mine own secluded room, Forgetful of life’s sober duty, Lapped in the stillness of repose, I sit and muse and dream of beauty; I picture all that’s fair and bright Which poets sometimes call Elysian, And, ’mid the shapes that round me throng, Behold one soft, enchanting vision. A lady—lovely as the morn When Night her starry mansion closes, And gentle winds with fairy feet Toss the sweet dew from blushing roses— A lady—to whose lip and cheek Some twenty summer suns have given Colors as rich as those that melt Along the evening clouds of Heaven. Her stature tall, her tresses dark, Her brow like light in ambush lying, Her hand—the very hand I’d give The world to clasp if I were dying! Her eyes, the glowing types of love, Upon the heart they print their meaning— How mild they shine as o’er them fall Those lashes long their lustre screening! Sweet Fanny, can you not divine The form that floats before my dreaming, And whose the pictured smiles I see This moment on my canvass beaming? You cannot! then I’ve failed indeed, To paint a single look I cherish— So, you may cast my lines aside, And bid them like my memory perish. My memory! what am I to thee, Oh purest, gentlest, fairest, dearest! Yes, _dearest_, though thy glance be cold When first my humble name thou hearest. Though I am nothing, thou to me Art Fancy’s best beloved ideal; And well I know the form she paints Is far less charming than the real. * * * * * THE DOOM OF THE TRAITRESS.[1] BY THE AUTHOR OF “CROMWELL,” “THE BROTHERS,” ETC.