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Rh

Lit from within was her noble brow, As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, As if ye might see how the soul wrought through; And every flash of her fervent eye Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy.

Even thus it was!—from her childhood's years,— A being of sudden smiles and tears,— Passionate visions, quick light and shade,— Such was that high-born Italian maid! And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell, Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,— Or as the sounds in the Eolian strings,— Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings; There, ever there, with the life enshrined, Waiting the call of the faintest wind.

Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, In the city's hour of moonlight glee,—