The Smooth Portrait

How lightly hast thou learned of human grief!Thy flesh has 'scaped the sacrificial knife—Men quote the pride of a too happy lifeTo set thy even virtues in relief.

The brow's serenity—the head thrown backThat the audacious eyes may smile to heaven;The mouth, with not one tender muscle rivenBy the impatient torture of the rack;

A joy self-continent, that overflowsThe marble of the face, for Beauty's sake;Heroic laughter, such as Day might wakeIn a God's heart, with rosy, ringing blows.

Oh! happy soul—upon thy placid breastThe worn eye sinks, and has so much of calm,While the clear voice is medicine and balmTo heal the aguish fever of unrest.

Yet are there closets of the inner shrineWhere we are bidden from the flowery day,To stand and give the awful voices sway,And, holding by God's hand, must part from thine.