Classic Poem

THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES

Adieu ! Romance's heroines—
 Give me the nymphs who this good hour
May charm me, not in Fiction's scenes,
 But teach me Beauty's living power.
My harp that has been mute too long
 Shall sleep at Beauty's name no more
So but your smiles reward my song,
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,—

In whose benignant eyes are beaming
 The rays of purity and truth,
Such as we fancy woman's seeming
 In creation's golden youth.
The more I look upon thy grace,
 Rosina, I could look the more;
But for Jemima's witching face,
 And the sweet smile of Eleanore.

Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
 Their portraits till I painted yours;
And these had future hearts enchanted
 When this poor verse no more endures.
I would have left the Congress faces,
 A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,
Till I had grouped you as the Graces—
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him:
 Your poet's heart is Catholic too—
His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,
 His saints' days when he visits you.
And my sere laurels for my duty
 Miraculous at your touch would rise,
Could I give verse one trait of beauty
 Like that which glads me from your eyes.

Unsealed by you these lips have spoken,
 Disused to song for many a day;
Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken,
 And warmed a heart of callous clay;
So, when my fancy next refuses
 To twine for you a garland more,
Come back again and be my Muses—
 Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.