It was a wise conclusion on the part of Moggs, who may, perchance, in this way, be a "gineral" yet.
A sudden thrill passed through my heart, Wild and intense--yet not of pain-- I strove to quell quick, bounding throbs, And scanned the sentence o'er again. It might have been full idly penned By one whose thoughts from love were free, And yet as if entranced I read "Thou art most beautiful to me."
Thou didst not whisper I was loved-- There were no gleams of tenderness, Save those my trembling heart _would_ hope That careless sentence might express. But while the blinding tears fell fast, Until the words I scarce could see, There shone, as through a wreathing mist, "Thou art most beautiful to me."
To thee! I cared not for all eyes So I was beautiful in thine! A timid star, my faint, sad beams Upon _thy_ path alone should shine. Oh what was praise, save from thy lips-- And love should all unheeded be So I could hear thy blessed voice Say--"Thou art beautiful to me."
And I _have heard_ those very words-- Blushing beneath thine earnest gaze-- Though thou, perchance, hadst quite forgot They had been said in by-gone days. While claspèd hand, and circling arm, Drew me nearer still to thee-- Thy low voice breathed upon mine ear "Thou, love, art beautiful to me."
And, dearest, though thine eyes alone May see in me a single grace-- I care not so thou e'er canst find A hidden sweetness in my face. And if, as years and cares steal on, Even that lingering light must flee, What matter! if from thee I hear "Thou art _still_ beautiful to me!"
Oh! look, my love, as over seas and lands Comes shadowy Night, with dew, and peace, and rest; How every flower clasps its folded hands And fondly leans apon her faithful breast. How still, how calm, is all around us now, From the high stars to these pale buds beneath-- Calm, as the quiet on an infant's brow Rocked to deep slumber in the lap of death. Oh! hush--move not--it is a holy hour And this soft nurse of nature, bending low, Lists, like the sinless pair in Eden's bower, For angels' pinions waving to and fro-- Oh, sacred Night! what mysteries are thine Graven in stars upon thy page divine. GRETTA.
The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill A perfect woman, nobly planned. WORDSWORTH.