This I admire, but still methinks I look
With a serener pleasure on the head
Crested by flaxen curls; or where soft locks,
Like to long coiling leaves that lose their edge,
Shine silken on the cheek, and parting smooth
Above a fair and modest countenance,
Harmonize with its pure, its tender bloom.
Still lovelier when with that infusion sweet
Of saint or angel spirit, resident
In the calm circle of a blue eye fring'd
With sable lashes! I remember once
A face like this, ere sickness took away
Its freshness, in whose looks there also dwelt,
If one may speak it of a thing so young,
And not subdue our warm belief to say
The prophecy of all these qualities,
Refinement, gentleness, and mild resolve;
Fitted to stem the evil of this world,
And hold with patient intrepidity,
The shield of calm resistance to its power.
It seem'd as if no anger e'er could dwell
Within his bosom; no blind prejudice
Distract his judgment; and no folly call
For a reproof: as if Affection were
Too soon allied to Thought, and tempered so
His morning, that the ministry of Time,
The chast'ning trial of Remorse and Grief,
And of stern Disappointment, all were spar'd.
XXIV.
_On the Death of Herbert Southey: addressed to his Father_.
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