SONNET IV.

I Praise thee not, ARISTE, that thine eye Knows each emotion of the soul to speak; That lillies with thy face might fear to vie, And roses can but emulate thy cheek. I praise thee not because thine auburn hair In native tresses wantons on the wind; Nor yet because that face, surpassing fair, Bespeaks the inward excellence of mind: 'Tis that soft charm thy minstrel's heart has won, That mild meek goodness that perfects the rest; Soothing and soft it steals upon the breast, As the soft radiance of the setting sun, When varying through the purple hues of light, The fading orbit smiles serenely bright.