Part 7 out of 7
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.
END OF AKENSIDE'S POETICAL WORKS.