The Fair Quakeress

She was a fair young girl, yet on her brow

No pale pearl shone, a blemish on the pure

And snowy lustre of its living light,

No radiant gem shone beautifully through

The shadowing of her tresses, as a star

Through the dark sky of midnight; and no wreath

Of coral circled on her queenly neck,

In mockery of the glowing cheek and lip,

Whose hue the fairy guardian of the flowers

Might never rival when her delicate touch

Tinges the rose of springtime.

Tinges the rose of springtime. Unadorned,

Save by her youthful charms, and with a garb

Simple as Nature’s self, why turn to her

The proud and gifted, and the versed in all

The pageantry of fashion?

The pageantry of fashion? She hath not

Moved down the dance to music, when the hall

Is lighted up like sunshine, and the thrill

Of the light viol and the mellow flute,

And the deep tones of manhood, softened down

To very music melt upon the ear.—

She has not mingled with the hollow world

Nor tampered with its mockeries, until all

The delicate perceptions of the heart,

The innate modesty, the watchful sense

Of maiden dignity, are lost within

The maze of fashion and the din of crowds.

Yet Beauty hath its homage. Kings have bowed

From the tall majesty of ancient thrones

With a prostrated knee, yea, cast aside

The awfulness of time-created power

For the regardful glances of a child.

Yea, the high ones and powerful of Earth,

The helmëd sons of victory, the grave

And schooled philosophers, the giant men

Of overmastering intellect, have turned

Each from the separate idol of his high

And vehement ambition for the low

Idolatry of human loveliness;

And bartered the sublimity of mind,

The godlike and commanding intellect

Which nations knelt to, for a woman’s tear,

A soft-toned answer, or a wanton’s smile.

And in the chastened beauty of that eye,

And in the beautiful play of that red lip,

And in the quiet smile, and in the voice

Sweet as the tuneful greeting of a bird

To the first flowers of springtime, there is more

Than the perfection of the painter’s skill

Or statuary’s moulding. Mind is there,

The pure and holy attributes of soul,

The seal of virtue, the exceeding grace

Of meekness blended with a maiden pride;

Nor deem ye that beneath the gentle smile,

And the calm temper of a chastened mind

No warmth of passion kindles, and no tide

Of quick and earnest feeling courses on

From the warm heart’s pulsations. There are springs

Of deep and pure affection, hidden now,

Within that quiet bosom, which but wait

The thrilling of some kindly touch, to flow

Like waters from the Desert-rock of old.