HELENA.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise Of late all men have sounded. She for whom Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long, She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile I find no fascination in her smile, Although I make her theme of this poor song.

“Her golden tresses?” yes, they may be fair, And yet to me each shining silken tress Seems robbed of beauty and all lusterless — Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

( I know a little maiden so demure She will not let her one true lover's hands In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands, So dainty-minded is she, and so pure. )

“Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night? Large, long-lashed eyes and lustrous?” that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me. Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

( I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid. )

“Her perfect mouth so like a carvèd kiss?” “Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?” I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

( I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in passion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died. )

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile or die from loss of it, Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit, And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.