At the age of 15 Lord Byron became enamoured of a distant cousin, Mary Chaworth, who grew tired of "that lame boy" (he had a club foot). She became the symbol for him of idealized and unattainable love. It is probable, though not certain considering all the affairs he had in his short life, that he wrote this poem with her as his inspiration - which is reflected in the usual additional constraint: |
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She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
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Mark! How she strides in sabled grace
As, in the late empyrean glow,
Repose within that shadowed face
Youth's luster that's untarnished; Oh
Caressed by that soft-hued embrace
He made the stately sun forgo.
A more, a less, illumined scene
Will make that silken palette fade
Of silver locks bathed with a sheen,
Regaled with white skin half displayed;
Then on her visage shy, serene
Her chaste conceits one sees portrayed.
My queen, with that sweet heart there dwells
Youth's forthright innocence, and so
Love tender now enchanted wells;
Oh noble golden wit that no
Vain homage pays, that girl's worth tells.
Exalted loving pray bestow!
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