To the Bust of the Pompeian Cœlia
By Leila Macdonald
Alas, my Cœlia, that your grace
Could not prevail on ardent Death
To spare your sweet perfumed breath,
The youthful glories of your face.
But still you smile:
Your beauty, never conquered yet,
Disdains the tears of men's regret.
Across your curved and rosy ears,
How fair the curlng ringlets fell,
And kissed your bosom's snowy swell—
Olympus to your lover's tears.
We wonder now,
Within your body's rounded grace
What woman's soul found resting—place?
And in what flowered path of bliss
Did the stern Fates direct your feet?
Where only youth and beauty meet,
And every bower conceals a kiss?
Ah, happy maid!
That bowed your head to Love's command,
The fairest mistress in the land.
What
