He mark'd her perfect forehead, and thence drew
The flattering portrait of a finished mind;
Then on the brows he fix'd his raptur'd view
That never yet were match'd, that I can find,
And judg'd her gentle-temper'd, which was true,
But lively, and capricious, although kind;
Then glancing at her downcast lids, he goes
Straight to the lips, not liking much her nose.
What beauty there, what wit, what soul display'd!
But there was something else he scarce expected.
Already had he notic'd that the maid
Was somewhat, in her tone of voice, affected;
And now about her lips he thought there play'd
A consciousness of triumph, and detected,
Or fancy'd he detected, in her smile,
Not more of amiability than guile.
He, who knows much of women, knows mistrust.
Though he were open as the very day,
Less prone to doubt than infancy, yet must
Suspicion work at last her secret way,
By Disappointment guided and Disgust,
Into his heart, to make no transient stay.
ARTHUR, by curs'd experience taught in vain,
Would doubt and trust, to doubt and trust again.
And now the demon of distrust awoke,
And stirring in his breast with motion sore,
Poor BLANCHE's chain of fascination broke,
And CARRYL's pulse beat freely as before;
And presently when BLANCHE arose, and took
Her way unsteady to the cabin door,
He offer'd her his hand with such ill grace,
She begg'd he would by no means leave his place.
BIANCA's figure was not made for motion,
At least before a scrutinizing eye;
And ARTHUR, having now his amorous notion
Shook off, was more dispos'd to laugh than sigh.
"By Jove! "he said, "her flesh rolls like an ocean
On those huge hips, which are a mile too high !..
I wonder that she does not dress more snugly
And then, that nose of hers is so damn'd ugly!
All this was what the playbooks call aside,
Or in the sanctum of the speaker's mind.
And then his fancy took a sudden stride
To his far home, and friends there left behind.
Delicious travel! to the dull earth ty'd
While creeps the body, crippled or confin'd,
To mount a steed whose hoofs outrun the Day,
And scour o'er hills and ocean far away!
"T is to have two existences in one,
And be enfranchis'd in the soul, ere dead :
High privilege! of poets not alone,
But shar'd by brains of feathers and of lead:
(Thus, in our time, that ass of asses, SE,
By his long ears his sister spirit led,
In sympathetic converse through the air,
From Narragansett to the Lord knows where.)
Yet sad it is, though sweet, while far from home,
To wander in imagination back,
When he, whose feet in foreign climates roam,
Travels all lonesome in a crowded track,
And finds unshar'd his pleasures even become
Dispiriting and vapid; for the pack
Of mutual wo is borne with less annoy
Than lonely, if there can be lonely joy.
SO CARRYL found it; for his heart was warm, And look'd for sympathy, roam where he would. Before his vision rose the stately form
Of his young sister, gentle, fair, and good;
He seem'd to feel her kisses; and a swarm
Of other thoughts, that wake "the melting mood," Gather'd about his heart, and strove to rise.
He turn'd to CoNSTANCE, not to shame his eyes.
He turn'd, and from the sea his vacant gaze
Withdrew, to contemplate not CONSTANCE VERE,
But meet BIANCA, who, to his amaze,
Was coming tow'rds him with a look as clear
And kind, as she had known him all her days,
Or had not found him formal and severe.
Pale she was still, but languid now no more;
And her large eyes look'd softer than before.
Without a single moment's hesitation,
She took again the seat which she had quitted,
And, with great swiftness of enunciation,
From her most delicate mouth of rose emitted
Fresh compliments, upon an obligation
Whereof she would have been ten times acquitted
For only one of those sweet looks, with which
She made the copy of her thanks so rich.
"Monsieur has been so very, very kind!
I know not what I should have done," quoth she,
Without his help. A trifle? Never mind:
Though such to you, it has not been to me.
Better? O, thank you, sir! I really find
Myself quite well my spirits, as you see,
Are light enough; indeed, they never sag."
And here she drew a book out from her bag.
"D' you read Italian? Yes?
Perhaps you speak it?
I French? O, no!
Bene! I'm delighted.
fancy you might tell
By my false accent... Nay! you 're not invited To coin me compliments: if I excel
In your kind eyes, you surely are near-sighted: I am of ROME. And Monsieur, whence is he? AMERICA? That world beyond the sea?
"I thought you English: but, 't is all the same. No? Well then, nearly. Do you much admire Our poets? Here are some of modern name; A sort of album of the Tuscan quire:
Parini, Pindemonte, more of fame ;
Ode, song, and sonnet, all you can desire."
And, opening the book about midway,
She read aloud MANZONI's Fifth of May.
Aloud; that is, to CARRYL; who express'd
No way surprise, and had none to dissemble.
Unlike that fry of travellers profess'd,
From Captain BASIL down to F———y K———————,
Who find all strange that feather'd not the nest
Of their own littleness, and make us tremble
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