Classic Poem

Within the midnight of her hair,
Half-hidden in its deepest deeps,
A single, peerless, priceless pearl,
(All filmy-eyed,) for ever sleeps.
Without the diamond's sparkling eyes,
The ruby's blushes, — there it lies,
Modest as the tender dawn,
When her purple veil's withdrawn, —
The flower of gems, a lily cold and pale!
Yet, — what doth all avail?
All its beauty all its grace?
All the honours of its place?

He who plucked it from its bed,
In the far blue Indian ocean,
Lieth, without life or motion,
In his earthy dwelling, — dead!
And his children, one by one,
When they look upon the sun,
Curse the toil, by which he drew
The treasure from its bed of blue.

Gentle Bride, no longer wear,
In thy night-black odorous hair,
Such a spoil. It is not fit
That a tender soul should sit
Under such accursed gem!
What need'st thou a diadem? —
Thou, within whose eastern eyes,
Thought (a starry Genius) lies? —
Thou, whom Beauty has arrayed? —
Thou, whom Love and Truth have made
Beautiful, — in whom we trace
Woman's softness; angel's grace;
All we hope for; all that streams
Upon us in our haunted dreams?

O sweet Lady! cast aside,
With a gentle, noble pride,
All to sin or pain allied!
Let the wild-eyed conqueror wear
The bloody laurel in his hair!
Let the black and snaky vine
'Round the drinker's temples twine!
Let the slave-begotten gold
Weigh on bosoms hard and cold!
But be THOU for ever known
By thy natural light alone!