Xviii

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace Of finer form or lovelier face! What though the sun, with ardent frown, Had slightly tinged her cheek with brown-- The sportive toil, which, short and light, Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow. What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace,-- A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread. What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue-- Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, The listener held his breath to hear!