She stood alone; but on her every eye
Dwelt in mute ravishment; her long black hair
Flew loose upon the gale, but half confin'd
By the light veil and wreathes of braided rose,
Shading her bosom's matchless ivory,
And fell upon the lyre, like hyacinths
Twin'd fancifully round; a pensive shade
Was on the brightness of her deep blue eyes,
Where the sweet tenderness of woman's glance
Softened the minstrel's fire that sparkled there.—
The song arose; it was just such a strain
The soft Erato wakes, when she would sing
Of loveliness, and love by sorrow shaded;
Her voice (the Syren's is not sweeter, when
She breathes her music to calm moonlight seas,)
Was fraught with tender feelings, and called forth
An answering harmony within the heart;
And even when it ceas'd, the list'ner's ear,
Thrill'd with its wild and witching melody.
She stood, like some fair creature of the skies,
In mild unconscious beauty, and her eyes
Sunk to their timid station on the ground:
Her cheek was delicately pale; but when
They placed the laurel crown upon her brow,
Her face was mantled by a burning blush,
Bright, beautiful, like summer's glowing eve,
Such as young Psyche wore, when Love first taught
His own sweet language.