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10
THE TRIUMPHS


Nor breathe one vow to that ætherial friend,
On whom the colours of their life depend.
But to thy innocence I now display
The mystic marvels of my secret sway;
And tell, in this thy fate-deciding hour,
My race, my name, my office, and my power.
First, hear what wonders human forms contain!
And learn the texture of the female brain!
By Nature's care in curious order spread,
This living net is fram'd of tender thread;
Fine as thy hand, some favour'd youth to grace,
Knits with nice art to form the mimic lace.
Within the centre of this fretted dome,
Her secret tower, her heav'n-constructed home,
Soft Sensibility, sweet Beauty's soul!
Keeps her coy state, and animates the whole,
Invisible as Harmony, who springs,
Wak'd by young Zephyr, from Æolian strings:
Her subtle power, more delicately fine,
Dwells in each thread, and lives in every line,