Classic Poem

The shape alone let others prize,
— The features of the fair:
I look for spirit in her eyes,
— And meaning in her air.

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
— Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,
— That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honor shines,
— Where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines
— The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame;
— Without whose vital aid
Unfinished all her features seem,
— And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
— How perfect is the view,
With every image of delight,
— With graces ever new:

Of power to charm the greatest woe,
— The wildest rage control,
Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
— And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
— All language must despair;
But go, behold Arpasia's face,
— And read it perfect there.