Site Is Not Fashioned

SHE is not fashioned to command, Nor once, for grace, in her is shown, A form that peers the lily-wand— An air the lily's self might own; Not such her vaunt, tho' such enchant, Nay, make with joy the reason reel, 'Tis hers to bear a boon more rare,— A heart another's woe to feel. Nor hers the hair that beams afar Like streams of molten gold—an eye— That twinkles like the little star Attends the virgin moon on high; Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt Whoe'er her gentle smile has viewed; That smile would light the gloom would blight A heart with lion-nerve endued. Not hers the golden tones that break Like music from the lips, the rare— The dancing dimple on the cheek Accorded to the fabled fair; Not such her vaunt—nay, pride might taunt Her with a lack of charms—yet oh! She's to the faint and weak a saint Ordained to bless this world below.