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beauty of the lovely South, As languid as her valley's scented gale; The rose hath only place on that sweet mouth— A rose it is, but the soft cheek is pale.

Her large dark eyes are like a summer night, Before the moon's soft crescent shines above; Filled with a tender, yet a shadowy light, Whose silence is the eloquence of Love.

She dwelleth like a lone and fairy flower, That hath its home in some enchanted soil; What knoweth she of life's more troubled hour— Our northern lot of hurry, care and toil?

Half slave, half idol, she is kept apart; Her palace-prison is a veiled shrine; Enough for her the sweet world of the heart; Ah! little hath the ladye to resign!

Listless she dreams the sultry noon away, The painted fan just stirs her raven hair; The silken curtains yield a shadowy day, That makes the pale, fair beauty seem more fair.