To Mrs. T. Fancourt Poem by Matilda Betham

I love not yon gay, painted flower,
Of bold and coarsely blended dye,
But one, whose nicely varied power
May long detain the curious eye.

I love the tones that softly rise,
And in a fine accordance close;
That waken no abrupt surprise,
Nor leave us to inert repose.

I love the moon's pure, holy light,
Pour'd on the calm, sequester'd stream;
The gale, fresh from the wings of night,
Which drinks the early solar beam;

The smile of heaven, when storms subside,
When the moist clouds first break away;
The sober tints of even-tide,
Ere yet forgotten by the day.

Such sights, such sounds, my fancy please,
And set my wearied spirit free:
And one who takes delight in these,
Can never fail of loving thee!