What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate? Good sense--good humour;--these are trivial things, Dear M----, that each trite encomiast sings. But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt From every low-bred passion, where contempt, Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found A harbour yet; an understanding sound; Just views of right and wrong; perception full Of the deformed, and of the beautiful, In life and manners; wit above her sex, Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks; Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth; A noble nature, conqueror in the strife Of conflict with a hard discouraging life, Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power Of those whose days have been one silken hour, Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense Alike of benefit, and of offence, With reconcilement quick, that instant springs From the charged heart with nimble angel wings; While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd By a strong hand, seem burnt into her mind. If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer Richer than land, thou hast them all in her; And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon, Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown. THE SELF-ENCHANTED (1833) I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, Stooping, like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, With Self-love fond, had to waters pined. Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept: For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way-- 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature! for ever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more; For vain is expectance, and wish is vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again. TO LOUISA M[ARTIN], WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY" (1831)