That calls their beauty or their sweetness forth;
And, like her, too—dying beneath neglect.
’Twas like a fairy tale to pass the woods,
And enter the sweet solitude, and gaze
On the fair Spirit of its loveliness.
Delicate as a creature that but breathes
The perfumed air of palaces; a foot
Light as but used to tread on silken down,
And echo music; and a hand that looked
But made to wander o'er the golden harp;
Eyes blue as a June sky, when stars light up
Its deep clear midnight,—languishing, as love
Were all their language,—eyes whose glance would make,
At masque or ball, full many a sleepless night;
That dark black hair, which pearls so well become;
And, added to young beauty's natural grace,
That courtly air which tells of gentle blood
And gentle nurture.—What can she do here?
She loves, she is beloved; and love is all
That makes a woman's world—her element—
Her life—her Eden. Native of that land
Where the sun lights the heart—romantic Spain,
Her early youth past in a convent's cell;
Thence to her father's palace: but, or ere
Her heart beat answered to the passionate songs
That round her lattice floated, at twilight,
They came to England; there the seal was set
Love never sets in vain,—and sets but once!
