Mark yonder youth, on whose fond arm Leans one enriched with every charm That ever-bounteous Nature spent, When on some loving labour bent! How fresh, how young, how fair the face! That form, how round, how full of grace! That foot, how fairy-like and small! It might on bed of roses fall, And scarce a delicate leaflet crush, Nor by its pressure stain the blush: A sable robe, in graceful folds, Sweeps to her feet—a cestus holds Her slender waist, with many a gem Brilliant; so shines the diadem That crowns her brow, as marble pale, Whence low descends a dusky veil Round her sweet face in shadowy flow, Like clouds that float o’er Dian’s brow; Now her rare splendour half concealing, Now, touched by air, the whole revealing— “She walks in beauty,” Queen of Night, Did e’er the Goddess look more bright? Large diamonds, of the purest lustre, Within her raven tresses cluster, Which darker seem between the rays Emitted by their dazzling blaze: So show the heavens when stars abound, And shed their sparkling gleams around. Her veiled arms (might Fancy say) Remind us of the milky way, When in the winter’s midnight sky Its lone, long path, streams pale on high. All eyes are on her, but her own Are veiled, as though the lids had grown Jealous of those bright orbs they shade, And to reveal them half afraid. Why wears her cheek a brighter hue, Than Cashmere’s gardens ever knew? Why throbs that fair and gentle breast So wildly ’gainst her starry vest? Would she abashed those gazers shun? She hears—she sees—she feels but one!