SHE is not fashioned to command, br Nor once, for grace, in her is shown, br A form that peers the lily-wand— br An air the lily's self might own; br Not such her vaunt, tho' such enchant, br Nay, make with joy the reason reel, br 'Tis hers to bear a boon more rare,— br A heart another's woe to feel. br br Nor hers the hair that beams afar br Like streams of molten gold—an eye— br That twinkles like the little star br Attends the virgin moon on high; br Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt br Whoe'er her gentle smile has viewed; br That smile would light the gloom would br blight br A heart with lion-nerve endued. br br Not hers the golden tones that break br Like music from the lips, the rare— br The dancing dimple on the cheek br Accorded to the fabled fair; br Not such her vaunt—nay, pride might taunt br Her with a lack of charms—yet oh! br She's to the faint and weak a saint br Ordained to bless this world below.