Washington Allston

I look through tears on Beauty now;
And Beauty's self, less radiant, looks on me,
Serene, yet touch'd with sadness is the brow
(Once bright with joy) I see.

Joy-waking Beauty, why so sad?
Tell where the radiance of the smile is gone
At which my heart and earth and skies were glad —
That link'd us all in one.

It is not on the mountain's breast;
It comes not to me with the dawning day;
Nor looks it from the glories of the west,
As slow they pass away.

Nor on those gliding roundlets blight
That steal their play among the woody shades,
Nor on thine own dear children doth it light —
The flowers along the glades.

And alter'd to the living mind
(The great high-priestess with her thought-born race
Who round thine altar aye have stood and shined)
The comforts of thy face.

Why shadow'd thus thy forehead fair?
Why on the mind low hangs a mystic gloom?
And spreads away upon the genial air,
Like vapours from the tomb!

Why should ye shine, you lights above?
Why, little flowers, open to the heatS
No more within the heart ye filled with love
The living pulses beat.

Well, Beauty, may you mourning stand!
The fine beholding eye whose constant look
Was turn'd on thee is dark — and cold the hand
That gave all vision took.

Nay, heart, be still! — Of heavenly birth
Is Beauty sprung. — Look up! behold the place!
There he who reverent traced her steps on earth
Now sees her face to face.