III.

Fair was the maid, and lovely as the morn From starry Night and rosy Twilight born, Within whose mind a rivulet of song Rehearsed the strains that from her lips ere long Welled free and sparkling, as the vocal woods Repeat the day-spring's sweetest interludes. Her gentle eyes' serenest depths of blue Shrined love and truth, and all their retinue; The health and beauty of her youthful face Made it the Harem of each maiden grace; And such perfection blended with her air, She seemed some stately Goddess moving there: Beholding her, you thought she might have been The long-lost, flower-loving Proserpine: