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“'Tis not her easy shape and air,
“Her swelling bosom heavenly clear,
“Her smoother polish, brighter hue;
“No; for in these we're hardly two.
“Yet while she sits triumphant by,
“The Cyaosure[1] of every eye,
“I'm seen, if seen, with scorn alone,
“May fall unmiss'd, or stand unknown.
“Speak, dotards, speak, the diff'rence shew,
“Or own caprice rules all below."
‘Sister, forbear,’ the other cried,
‘To tell the world you're mortifi'd.
‘Envy no votaries shall gain,
‘It scarce has pity for its pain.
'’Tis not indeed my fairer frame,
‘No native excellence I claim;
‘ ’Tis not my body's happier mold,
‘More polish’d, pure, or rich with gold;
‘In these one character’s our due,
‘You fair as I, I frail as you:
‘And yet while you neglected sit,
‘Or but the theme of taunting wit,
‘I fix the traveller’s ardent gaze,
‘Have all his blessing all his praise.
‘What can this different treatment win!
‘Sure, sister, ‘tis the light within.’
- ↑ North star.
