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From the French by Louise Stuart Costello
ALL beauty, granted as a boon to earth, | |
| That is, has been, or ever can have birth, | |
| Compared to hers, is void, and Nature’s care | |
| Ne’er formed a creature so divinely fair. | |
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| In spring amidst the lilies she was born, | 5 |
| And purer tints her peerless face adorn; | |
| And though Adonis’ blood the rose may paint, | |
| Beside her bloom the rose’s hues are faint: | |
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| With all his richest store Love decked her eyes; | |
| The Graces each, those daughters of the skies, | 10 |
| Strove which should make her to the world most dear, | |
| And, to attend her, left their native sphere. | |
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| The day that was to bear her far away,— | |
| Why was I mortal to behold that day? | |
| O, had I senseless grown, nor heard, nor seen! | 15 |
| Or that my eyes a ceaseless fount had been, | |
| That I might weep, as weep amidst their bowers | |
| The nymphs, when winter winds have cropped their flowers, | |
| Or when rude torrents the clear streams deform, | |
| Or when the trees are riven by the storm! | 20 |
| Or rather, would that I some bird had been | |
| Still to be near her in each changing scene, | |
| Still on the highest mast to watch all day, | |
| And like a star to mark her vessel’s way: | |
| The dangerous billows past, on shore, on sea, | 25 |
| Near that dear face it still were mine to be! | |
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| O France! where are thy ancient champions gone,— | |
| Roland, Rinaldo?—is there living none | |
| Her steps to follow and her safety guard, | |
| And deem her lovely looks their best reward,— | 30 |
| Which might subdue the pride of mighty Jove | |
| To leave his heaven, and languish for her love? | |
| No fault is hers, but in her royal state,— | |
| For simple Love dreads to approach the great; | |
| He flies from regal pomp, that treacherous snare, | 35 |
| Where truth unmarked may wither in despair. | |
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| Wherever destiny her path may lead, | |
| Fresh-springing flowers will bloom beneath her tread, | |
| All nature will rejoice, the waves be bright, | |
| The tempest check its fury at her sight, | 40 |
| The sea be calm: her beauty to behold, | |
| The sun shall crown her with his rays of gold,— | |
| Unless he fears, should he approach her throne | |
| Her majesty should quite eclipse his own. | |
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