A heart that answer'd sorrow's slightest thrill;
And thoughts that dwelt not on reality,
But lov'd to wander in imagin'd scenes,
'Mid fancy's fair creation revelling.
A tender bloom just dawn'd upon her cheek,
Too pale, to say the rose was glowing there,
But the soft hue which the white violet
Wears on its perfum'd leaf; save when a blush
Deepen'd to crimson radiance o'er her face.
Her voice was sweet as the last dying close
Waked from the wild guitar in Spanish groves,
When the fond lover pours his soul in song,
And echo answers like a maiden's sigh.
It had those silvery tones which, lingering, hang
Upon the ear, and melt into the heart.
Young, lovely with the sunny brow of youth,
More touching from the pensive shade which threw
A magic charm around it. Such she was,
Fair as the spring time of her native vales.
