Bright are thine eyes, star-scorning,
Fair daughter of the South,
The roseate hues of morning
Are on thy cheek and mouth,
And thoughts of Paradise repose
About thy bosom's snows.
A dream of beauty wandering o'er
Some poet's raptured brain,
Thy form of grace might well restore,
Never to part again :-
A form which sculptors might behold,
Then scorn their art as cold.
Daughter! profusely dower'd,--
Rise high o'er Beauty's dower,
And, tho' midst roses bower'd,
Assume thy righteous power;
Shape with triumphant hand
The glories of thy land.
For, in thy power of Beauty,
Thou has a vast control,--
To guard the path of Duty,
And to exalt the soul,--
To bid our youth aspire,
And glow with patriot fire.
Old Greece, old Rome, and Britain,
Have annals which relate,--
Brave men have truly written,--
What glorifies a State;
Be it thy pride to raise
Our youth to Glory's ways.
The sordid heart can never
A patriot breast inflame;
Fear stays each high endeavour,
And slopes the path to shame :--
Injustice -- leprous taint--
Makes the heart foul and faint.
Let not the mean of spirit
Approach thy virgin hand,
Altho' he may inherit
The riches of the land,--
Nor let thy bright eyes smile
On cruelty or guile.
Nor beeves nor treasures hoarded,
Should shield from woman's scorn
The base, the false, the sordid,--
Altho' of princes born;
Yet should her smile make glad,
The high-souled peasant lad.
Teach thy young smiling brother,
True -- chivalrous to be,--
And, when thou art a mother,
Teach those around thy knee,
How great their country's claim,
How high a patriot's fame.
First published in The Empire, 2 December 1851
