Well, Heaven be thanked my first-love failed,
As, Heaven be thanked, our first-loves do!
Thought I, when Fanny past me sailed,
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 charmed the boy
Whose love-sick mind, misreading fate,
Scarce hoped that any Queen of Joy
Could ever stoop to be his mate.

But there danced she, who from the leaven
Of ill preserved 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 marked 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, lingered still.
Her ball-dress seemed a breathing mist,
From the fair form 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 expressed,
And, oh, what perfume, as she moved,
Came from the flowers in her breast!
How sweet a tongue the music had!
"Beautiful Girl,' it seemed to say,
"Though all the world were vile and sad,
"Dance on; let innocence be gay.'
Ah, none but I discerned her looks,
When in the throng she passed 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!

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 played;
And was it like the Pharisee
If I in secret bowed 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 accustomed to the truth,
Made capable of her fair smile?

Charles Barton followed down the stair,
To talk with me about the Ball,
And carp at all the people there.
The Churchills chiefly stirred his gall:
"Such were the Kriemhiles and Isondes
You stormed 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
Attacked mine eyes. By pale and park
I rode, and ever seemed to see,
In the transparent starry dark,
That 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.