Song

1 The shape alone let others prize,
      The features of the fair;
    I look for spirit in her eyes,
      And meaning in her air;

2 A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
      Shall ne’er my wishes win:
    Give me an animated form,
      That speaks a mind within;

3 A face where awful honour shines,
      Where sense and sweetness move,
    And angel innocence refines
      The tenderness of love.

4 These are the soul of Beauty’s frame;
      Without whose vital aid,
    Unfinish’d all her features seem,
      And all her roses dead.

5 But, ah! where both their charms unite,
      How perfect is the view,
    With every image of delight,
      With graces ever new:

6 Of power to charm the greatest woe,
      The wildest rage control,
    Diffusing mildness o’er the brow,
      And rapture through the soul.

7 Their power but faintly to express,
      All language must despair;
    But go, behold Arpasia’s face,
      And read it perfect there.