And as they came, One form arose so matchless in its grace, That all, amazed, shrank tremblingly away. With queenly step she trod the ravished turf, And with her winsome foot the lovely buds In very ecstasy of rapture played, That one so gentle sought their perfumed home. A veil of silver-tissue, mottled o’er With sparkling stars, hung round her sylphid form, And tresses, rich like Autumn’s golden grain, Fell down, and nestled on her snowy breast. Too exquisite for earth—of mould too fine— She seemed a herald from the beaming sky, Sent down to whisper of the spirit-land. Such sight, I ween, had painter never seen; And e’en the charméd breath of poesy, Whose blissful cadences the enwrapt ear Of wondering mortals caught with silent joy, Had conjured up in wild and weird-like spell, No face that ever was so fair and bright. One look she gave the painter as he gazed, That made to him a desert of the world— A look so full of passion and of love, It turned the memory of the past a blank, And in the future left him naught but her. His soul was all afire, and his brain Swam round, as when the throbbing heart of man Is burst for happiness it cannot hold; And as he strove to break the mortal chain That bound him where he lay, a mist arose And envious bore that being from the spot. Far from his sight she fled! and passed away With floating witcheries of wildest song, Into the twilight land where spirit forms Like phantoms mingled with the swelling gale. Far from his sight she fled! and like a barque Whose guiding star has left its native sky, The painter drifted on with heedless sail! . . . . . . The morning breeze crept in the painter’s hall! And near the window ledge, with pallid brow, He lay like one whose very pulse had gone. With tips of gold the princely spires and domes Of Florence gleamed, and on her throne she sat A queen in pride—queen of the Tuscan land! The morning grew apace, and fleecy clouds, The children of the dawn, trailed o’er the sky. Still Raffaelle slept.