by Owen O. Ryan (uncredited)
Originally published in Household Words (Bradbury & Evans) vol.16 #390 (12 Sep 1857).
Her brow is set in mellow light,
Young Angela's! The happy mind
That dwells within is raying out
Its beauty; and as fruits behind
Her bower ripen, so her face
And form grow perfect to the mind.
Oh, ever so, through days and nights,
Be clear and smooth that rounding brow!
And ever, moulded from within,
Glow brightly pure and mild as now
The loveliness where soul is all
Upon the snowy-polish'd brow!
Her braidless hair swims down her neck,
Sweet Angela's! No tresses on
The richest tropic tree that drinks
The gold breath of the central sun,
Can vie with all that curled wave
That sways her bending neck upon.
Oh, soft and deep, on cheek and neck,
Fall ever so the peerless brown!
No rougher air than floats to-day
Disturb it as it clusters down;
Nor earth distain with sadder tint
The glossy crest of golden brown!
Her drooping eyes are full of dreams,
Rapt Angela's! The dewy eyes
Of those bright buds her hands are in,
Upon her lap, in all their dyes
Have not a match for their serene
And holy blue—my dreamer's eyes!
Oh, let them droop, and melt, and dream,
Blue eyes! And let her hands be hid
In blossoms! May no touch of pain
Bedim a marbled silky lid,
Nor stir with need to dry a tear,
A rosy palm in roses hid!
Her down-tipp'd lashes quiver oft,
Bright Angela's! and melts a smile
Around the temples, down the cheek
And chin, and bathes the lips awhile;
Till, past the gold drops in her ears,
The white neck steals the sliding smile.
Oh, like the circles on a stream,
That pass from touches of the flowers
Upon the bank, may smiles play on
About her heart, through all her hours,
And o'er her face, as now within
Her summer-arbour lawn'd with flowers!
Her lips begin to murmur now,
Child Angela's! The lisping words
Are full of music, like the low
Soft whisperings of dreaming birds;
And with her tiny foot the time
Is beaten to the measured words.
Oh, ever so be near to soothe
Her soul, some poet's sweetest song!
And never harsher note afflict
Her ear; but, all her life along,
Be round her steps and in the air,
When man is mute, an angel's song!
She knows not of my watch of love,
Dear Angela! And soon away
From this deep hillock-girdled glen
Must pass the heart that beats to-day
So near her; but her picture throbs
For ever in it far away.
In lustrous midnights of the south,
When star-shine sleeps among the vines,
And silver'd ripples crown the lakes,
My thoughts shall soar across the lines
Of Alps, and zones of earth and sky,
To her from out the land of vines.