The Lady Constance. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

Rose of Lancaster.

Her downcast eyes are bent on earth,
On her wild harp one lily arm
Rested — then swept the trembling cords: —
But there was in her air a charm
Something beyond the power of words,
Well to express: — the loftiest birth
Beamed from her every look, and tone —
Yea from her dark eyes lighten'd forth
And fixed the exclusive gaze of one
Whose 'raptured sense doth in her sight avow,
Bright beauty he hath ne'er beheld till now.
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It was not beauty in the sunny hour
When young delight sits sparkling on its brow,
And shineth there in conscious pride and power,
A prey to grief — tho' peerless; He doth mark
Her forehead's whiteness, and the jetty fringe
Of her long lashes, with the eye as dark
As starry night — the bright carnation tinge
Of her soft cheek — blushes that went and came
Uncertain — like the expiring taper's flame!
The graceful head — the folds of raven hair,
Scorning the golden net which strove to bind,
Pass not unnoticed, as in ringlets rare,
They court the breeze or frolic unconfined
Adown her swan-like neck, and bosom fair. —
Thus blooms the rose amid a wilderness,
Of prickly thorns, and weeds, on desert bed
More sweet, more fair in native loviness
Than garden flowers the which we tend and dress;
It smiles, and doth unheeded perfume shed!
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