A secret hand to me convey'd The thoughts of that inspiring Maid ; They came like voices on the wind, Heard in the stillness of the mind. When round the Poet's twilight walk Aerial beings seem to talk. Not the twin stars of Leda shine With vernal influence more benign, Nor sweeter, in the sylvan vale. Sings the lone-warbling nightingale. Than through my shades her lustre broke. Than to my griefs her spirit spoke.
My fancy form'd her young and fair. Pure as her sister lilies were, Adorn'd with meekest maiden grace, With every charm of soul and face. That Virtue's awful eye approves. And fond Affection dearly loves ; Heaven in her open aspect seen, Her Maker's image in her mien.