The same your winning charms, your dimples, smiles, The same mild virtue that each heart beguiles, The same your occupations, hopes, and fears, Your artless gaiety, your ready tears;— You’ll recognise the portrait I am sure, Though you deny it with a look demure: And thus alike in loveliness and lives, May you, like Mary, soon be blessed as—wives. THE BELLE OF A SEASON. ’Tis noon, and Spring, with genial power, Hath lent her sunshine to the hour; Hath breathed her sweetness through the air That murmurs o’er the bright parterre; On many a forest-monarch tall Hath hung a fresh green coronal— The emerald turf hath dressed anew, With primrose pale, and violet blue; And showers of snow-like wind-flowers strown In many a copse and upland lone; Hath heaped on the laburnum gay Its gold—its fragrance on the May; And balls of silver rich to see Hung o’er the wild wayfaring-tree: No wonder that yon ancient hall Looks decked as for a festival. Yon ancient hall!—a noble race, Whose deeds hath History loved to trace, Spread yonder court, and raised that tower Whose oriel speaks it Beauty’s bower; And loved in manhood’s youthful pride Through that oak-planted chase to ride, Where antlered roamers brouse and play Throughout the golden summer day; And hares, with eyes like gems that burn, Crouch timid ’mid the rustling fern. Beyond,—a river, clear and blue As Heaven’s own bright cerulean hue, Winds with a song of pleasant tone Through many a meadow-valley lone, Where teeming cows and snowy sheep Along its flowery border creep— And soon as peeps the early Spring, Her merry choir their gladness sing— Whose joy but cheers the soft repose, So fair an English landscape knows. [Illustration: _The Hall_ _OR FEED THE BIRD THAT AT HER VOICE WOULD IN ITS PRISON-CAGE REJOICE_ ] A daughter of that noble race, With all its beauty in her face, Looks from yon hall across that scene Of river bright and meadow green— I said her face was proudly fair, But—lovelier far—a heart is there, Filled with o’erflowing love of all On which her gentle glance doth fall. Oft have her childhood’s feet at dawn Brushed its bright dew from yonder lawn, And well she knows each sheltered dell, And each peculiar tree can tell; And every flower before her feet Is linked with memories passing sweet: She little dreams who gazes there, That _she_ is far more fresh and fair Than all the pride of her parterre: So those the most who charm and bless Least know their wealth of loveliness!