I Speak Not Of Beauty Poem by Mary Anne Browne

I speak not of beauty; - it is not a face
That can win the affection of hearts such as mine :
I never the sweetness, some fancy, could trace
In features so cold and insensate as thine.

Thy cheek may be spread with a soft rosy glow ;-
But it blooms for thine own selfish pleasures alone :
Thy heart may be pure ; - but then 'tis as the snow
That chills the kind hand that would make it its own.

Thine eye may be bright ; - but it hath not the art
That can throw a soft spell o'er the soul it enslaves-
That can cast its bright fetters around the young heart,
As the sun-beams are thrown o'er the swift-flowing waves.

And round thy soft lip may lurk many a wile,
And thy cheek with its blushes all bright may appear ; -
But to me there's no charm in the cold frozen smile,
That at sympathy's call cannot melt to a tear.

Thy diamonds may shine in thy dark flowing hair,
And thy gems mock the lustre that beams in thine eye,
And those tresses may wave o'er that bosom so fair ;
That hath never yet heav'd with one pitying sigh.

Oh! give me the jewel that falls from the eye,
That weeps for the grief of another alone ;-
Oh ! give me the cheek that can smile itself dry,
As soon as those sorrows and woes are its own.

Oh ! give me a breast that is fair as the snows,
Yet warm as the sun-beam that melts them again ;
And while it possesses the sweets of the rose,
As pure as the dew on its leaves may remain.

Oh ! give me the maid with a heart that can feel,
Whose soul with the chain of affection is twin'd,
And a brow on which pity hath set her soft seal ; -
Oh ! give me the maid with a sensitive mind.