Faint Praise

A ruler's wife — to the end of life!

See "her the queenly head-dress wear,—
Six jewelled pins within the hair;
What elegance, what grace is there,
The grace of nature's hills and streams!
And O, the figured robe her form beseems.
Yet, with her morals all amiss,
What make we of the like of this!
How rich and rare, how rich and rare
Is her festal robe, — like pheasants' plumes!
And like a cloud her black hair looms.
False locks she scorns, nor e'er assumes.
Of precious stones her ear-plugs are;
A comb of ivory binds her hair;
Her lofty forehead, O so white and fair!
Ah so! celestial, sure, is she!
Ah so! then O— the Deity!
How brilliantly, how brilliantly
Her robes of ceremony shine,
Worn o'er the crape and lawn so fine,
While for her warmth the whole combine.

Arched are her brows, and bright her eyes,
And broad and full her temples nobly rise.
Ha, clearly such a one may stand,
For beauty, foremost in the land!