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That calls their beauty or their sweetness forth; And, like her, too—dying beneath neglect.

’Twas like a fairy tale to pass the woods, And enter the sweet solitude, and gaze On the fair Spirit of its loveliness. Delicate as a creature that but breathes The perfumed air of palaces; a foot Light as but used to tread on silken down, And echo music; and a hand that looked But made to wander o'er the golden harp; Eyes blue as a June sky, when stars light up Its deep clear midnight,—languishing, as love Were all their language,—eyes whose glance would make, At masque or ball, full many a sleepless night; That dark black hair, which pearls so well become; And, added to young beauty's natural grace, That courtly air which tells of gentle blood And gentle nurture.—What can she do here? She loves, she is beloved; and love is all That makes a woman's world—her element— Her life—her Eden. Native of that land Where the sun lights the heart—romantic Spain, Her early youth past in a convent's cell; Thence to her father's palace: but, or ere Her heart beat answered to the passionate songs That round her lattice floated, at twilight, They came to England; there the seal was set Love never sets in vain,—and sets but once!