1

Well, Heaven be thank’d my first-love fail’d,

   As, heaven be thank’d, our first-loves do!

Thought I, when Fanny past me sail’d,

   Loved once, for what I never knew,

Unless for colouring in her talk,

   When cheeks and merry mouth would show

Three roses on a single stalk,

   The middle wanting room to blow,

And forward ways, that charm’d the boy

   Whose love-sick mind, misreading fate,

Scarce hoped that any Queen of Joy

   Could ever stoop to be his mate.

2

But here danced she, who from the leaven

   Of till preserv’d my heart and wit

All unawares, for she was heaven,

   Others at best but fit for it.

One of those lovely things she was

   In whose least action there can be

Nothing so transient but it has

   An air of immortality.

I mark’d her step, with peace elate,

   Her brow more beautiful than morn,

Her sometime look of girlish state

   Which sweetly waived its right to scorn;

The giddy crowd, she grave the while,

   Although, as ’twere beyond her will,

Around her mouth the baby smile,

   That she was born with, linger’d still.

Her ball-dress seem’d a breathing mist,

   From the fair from exhaled and shed,

Raised in the dance with arm and wrist

   All warmth and light, unbraceleted.

Her motion, feeling ‘twas beloved,

   The pensive soul of tune express’d,

And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,

   Came from the flowers in her breast!

How sweet a tongue the music had!

   ‘Beautiful Girl,’ it seem’d to say,

‘Though all the world were vile and sad,

   ‘Dance on; let innocence be gay.’

Ah, none but I discern’d her looks,

   When in the throng she pass’d me by,

For love is like a ghost, and brooks

   Only the chosen seer’s eye;

And who but she could e’er divine

   The halo and the happy trance,

When her bright arm reposed on mine,

   In all the pauses of the dance!

3

Whilst so her beauty fed my sight,

   And whilst I lived in what she said,

Accordant airs, like all delight

   Most sweet when noted least, were play’d;

And was it like the Pharisee

   If I in secret bow’d my face

With joyful thanks that I should be,

   Not as were many, but with grace,

And fortune of well-nurtured youth,

   And days no sordid pains defile,

And thoughts accustom’d to the truth,

   Made capable of her fair smile?

4

Charles Barton follow’d down the air,

   To talk with me about the Ball,

And carp at all the people there.

   The Churchills chiefly stirr’d his gall:

‘Such were the Kriemhilds and Isondes

   ‘You storm’d about at Trinity!

‘Nothing at heart but handsome Blondes!

   ‘Folk say that you and Fanny Fry-’

‘They err! Good-night! Here lies my course,

   ‘Through Wilton.’ Silence blest my ears,

And, weak at heart with vague remorse,

   A passing poignancy of tears

Attack’d mine eyes. By pale and park

   I rode, and ever seem’d to see,

In the transparent starry dark,

   Hat splendid brow of chastity,

That soft and yet subduing light,

   At which, as at the sudden moon,

I held my breath, and thought ‘how bright!’

   That guileless beauty in its noon,

Compelling tribute of desires

   Ardent as day when Sirius reigns,

Pure as the permeating fires

   That smoulder in the opal’s veins.

 

 

 

 

Coventry Patmore