She stood before her father's gorgeous tent, To listen for his coming. Her loose hair Was resting on her shoulders, like a cloud Floating around a statue, and the wind, Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised Her beautiful, dark, Jewish eyes to heaven, Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. Her lip was slightly parted, like the cleft Of a pomegranate blossom; and her neck, Just where the cheek was melting to its curve With the unearthly beauty sometimes there, Was shaded, as if light had fallen off, Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling Her light, quick breath, to hear; and the white rose Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, Like nothing but a lovely wave of light, To meet the arching of her queenly neck. Her countenance was radiant with love. She look'd like one to die for it--a being Whose whole existence was the pouring out Of rich and deep affections. I have thought A brother's and a sister's love were much; I know a brother's is--for I have been A sister's idol--and I know how full The heart may be of tenderness to her! But the affection of a delicate child For a fond father, gushing, as it does, With the sweet springs of life, and pouring on Through all earth's changes, like a river's course-- Chasten'd with reverence, and made more pure By the world's discipline of light and shade-- 'Tis deeper--holier.