Orat Illa

Beautiful creature! there is glory now
On the unshadowed whiteness of thy brow;
     And the rich sunlight lovingly doth sleep
In the bright meshes of thy golden hair.
What are the mysteries thou readest there
     With thy blue eye intently fixed on Heaven,
As if to con its pages? Say, Gildare,
     What are the glories to thy vision given?
Doth thy meek spirit need the aid of prayer,
     Its unpolluted purity to keep?
Oh, I could deem thee, as thou now art kneeling,
     With thy meek eye uplifted, more than saint—
     A seraph, all too glorious to paint,
Tranced in a sweet delirium of feeling!