196
They'd own themselves outdone,
When thy pure brow
And neck of snow
Gleamed in the morning sun.
Could shining brooks,
By amorous looks,
Be taught a voice so rare,
Then, every sound
That murmured round
Would whisper, "Thou art fair!"
Could winds be fraught
With pensive thought
At midnight's solemn hour,
Then every wood,
In gleeful mood,
Would own thy beauty's power!
And, could the sky
Behold thine eye,
So filled with love and light,
In jealous haste,
Thou soon wert placed
To star, the cope of Night!
