A Sketch. Poem by Caroline Howard Gilman

THE gay saloon was thronged with grace and beauty,
While astral rays shone out on lovely eyes,
And lovely eyes look'd forth a clearer beam.
Fashion was there —not in her flaunting robes,
Lavish of charms —but that fair sprite who moulds
All to her touch, yet leaves it nature still.
The light young laugh came reed-like on the ear,
Touching the cord of joy, electrical;
And smiles too graceful for a sound passed out
From ruby lips, like perfume from a flower.
Catching the gracious word of courtesy,
The listening maid turn'd to the speaker's eye;
And bowing in his honour'd lowliness,
His manly head inclined to her slight form.
There was a hum of social harmony,
'Like the soft south' upon the rushing seas.
Between its pauses burst the harp's rich tone,
Pour'd out by one who fill'd the poet's eye
With fond fruition of his classic dream.
A voice was there —clear and distinct it rose,
Like evening's star when other stars are dim;
Clear, sweet and lonely, as that southern bird's
Who on far turrets trills his midnight lay.
In the heart's cavern, deep that voice went down,
Waking up echoes of the silent past.
O woman! lovely in thy beauty's power!
Thrice lovely, when we know that thou canst turn
To duty's path, and tread it with a smile.