Poetry Archives

Lucy, I think not of thy beauty,
    I praise not each peculiar grace;
  To see thee in the path of duty,
    And with that happy, smiling face,
Conveys more pleasure to thy friend,
Than any outward charm could lend.

  I see thy graceful babes caress thee,
    I mark thy wise, maternal care,
  And sadly do the words impress me,
    The magic words—that thou art fair.
I wonder that a tongue is found
To utter the unfeeling sound!

  For, art thou not above such praises?
    And is this all that they can see?
  Poor is the joy such flattery raises,
    And, oh! how much unworthy thee!
Unworthy one whose heart can feel
The voice of truth, the warmth of zeal!

  O Lucy, thou art snatch’d from folly,
    Become too tender to be vain,
  The world, it makes me melancholy,
    The world would lure thee back again!
And it would cost me many sighs,
To see it win so bright a prize!

  Though passing apprehensions move me,
    I know thou hast a noble heart;
  But, Lucy, I so truly love thee,
    So much admire thee as thou art,
That, but the shadow of a fear,
Wakes in my breast a pang sincere.