Clara Quantrille
Lady! no marvel that the kinsman young
Of the grand master of the mystery
Of metaphysics, fell in love with thee;
Nor yet that while the stage, jumbling along,
Soothed him to slumber with its one dull song,
As towards the land of lakes and poesy
The wayward youth rode nightly journeying, -- he
Over thy imagined form in visions hung.
For thou hast charms to warm a colder breast
Than that of youthful poet: locks like night;
Cheeks of rich bloom, where love hath built his nest;
Looks like young Juno’s; eyes from whose full glance
The gazer shrinks abashed, as in the fight
The polished shield returns the warrior’s lance.
Lady! no marvel that the kinsman young
Of the grand master of the mystery
Of metaphysics, fell in love with thee;
Nor yet that while the stage, jumbling along,
Soothed him to slumber with its one dull song,
As towards the land of lakes and poesy
The wayward youth rode nightly journeying, -- he
Over thy imagined form in visions hung.
For thou hast charms to warm a colder breast
Than that of youthful poet: locks like night;
Cheeks of rich bloom, where love hath built his nest;
Looks like young Juno’s; eyes from whose full glance
The gazer shrinks abashed, as in the fight
The polished shield returns the warrior’s lance.