The Village Beauty

THE glowing tints of a tropic eve,
Burn on her radiant cheek,
And we know that her voice is rich and low,
Though we never have heard her speak;
So full are those gracious eyes of light,
That the blissful flood runs o'er,
And wherever her tranquil pathway tends
A glory flits on before!
O! very grand are the city belles,
Of a brilliant and stately mien,
As they walk the steps of the languid dance,
And flirt in the pauses between;
But beneath the boughs of the hoary oak,
When the minstrel fountains play,
I think that the artless village girl
Is sweeter by far than they.
O! very grand are the city belles,
But their hearts are worn away
By the keen-edged world, and their lives have lost
The beauty and mirth of May;
They move where the sun and the starry dews
Reign not; they are haughty and bold,
And they do not shrink from the cursed mart,
Where faith is the slave of gold.
But the starry dews and the genial sun
Have gladdened her guileless youth;
And her brow is bright with the flush of hope,
Her soul with the seal of truth;
Her steps are beautiful on the hills
As the steps of an Orient morn,
And Ruth was never more fair to see
In the midst of the autumn corn.