The floor of polished oak was made, O'er which a carpet rich was laid. The furniture was carved antique; And had it been allowed to speak, Might tales of stirring int'rest tell Of what in ancient times befell: But that which most attracted me Seemed younger far than all to be, The portrait of a lady fair As ever breathed the vital air, Or drove a lover to despair, Or claimed in any mischief share;-- As beautiful a face was there As poet's quill did e'er compare With aught above the earth that grows; Than even winter's drifting snows, Her neck was white, while dark her eyes As night when moonbeams shun the skies; Her glossy locks down trickling, Were blacker than the raven's wing, While fresh-born pearls might even die with grief, Out-rivalled by her more transparent teeth. The rosy, tint-like blushes on her cheek, Would puzzle Language, if he truth must speak. In fact, I saw the portrait was not real,-- A painter's fancy, beautiful, ideal. Yet still, enraptured, in a pensive mood, Entranced I gazed, more pleased the more I viewed, When, unperceived, beside me stood my host, Who like myself in wand'ring thought seemed lost. He sighed; I turned, and on his cheek beheld A falling tear his mem'ry's grief impelled: But soon above it rose a cheerful smile, And Joy seemed anxious Sorrow to beguile. "What form! what grace!" half questioning, said I, "No mortal face such beauty could supply?" "But yet a fairer one I've seen," said he. "Then surely she th' original must be?" "Not her, I mean; the grave has closed above That beauteous form, which seeing was to love: My housekeeper I meant,--you smile!" said he, "I own that I may not impartial be; But still I hope you will not seek her heart, For it would kill me were we forced to part: Come, promise me you will not fall in love," He joking said, and cast his eyes above. I gave my word, though really I must own On first beholding I was near o'erthrown, And nigh had fallen into Cupid's snare, For such a sight I did but half prepare. A step approached, he left that toe to seek, A smacking kiss salutes his aged cheek, Then, whisp'ring low of me, I heard them speak, And felt uncertain what I ought to do. When not long after they both entered through The half-closed door my back was turned unto. "His housekeeper," thinks I: "I'll not look round Until he speak, but seem in thought profound, Still gazing on that face for charms renowned." "My niece, my friend." I introduced am now, And so, perforce, must turn me round and bow. When, like Miss Lalla Rookh, In Moore's delightful book (Who found her husband was Young What's-his-name), I with amazement found (When I had gazed around) The housekeeper and portrait were the same. The night-dark orbs, which radiant smiles bedeck (Like sunbeams dancing on the ruffled wave), The pearly teeth, the snowy, swan-like neck, The roseate hue which health unsparing gave, The velvet cheek, and deepened on the lips