SONNET I.

Sweet marble! didst thou merely represent,
In lieu of her on whom our glances rest,
Some common loveliness, — we were content,
As with a modell'd beauty, well express'd:
But, by the very skill which makes thee seem
So like HER bright and intellectual face,
The heart is led unsatisfied to dream;
For sculpture cannot give the breathing grace,
The light which plays beneath that shadowy brow,
Like sunshine on the fountains of the south, —
The blush which tints that cheek with roseate glow, —
The smile which hovers round that angel-mouth:
No! such the form o'er which Pygmalion sigh'd —
Too fair to be complete while SOUL was still denied!