As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay.

BYRON.

Sweet wanderer--we have known her long!
And often on our ear,
Has gush'd the cadence of her song,
As if some stream were near.
Her path was through our tranquil dell,
When breezes kiss'd the curfew bell.

We gaz'd upon the golden hair,
That o'er her white brow shone,
And beauty's tinge had cluster'd there,
A grace unlike its own.
We call'd it beautiful--that brow!
But rayless were the eyes below.

Those pale dim eyes, we would have given
Our flowers to see them glow--
They slept, as sleeps the summer heaven,
When the sun waxeth low:
And soft her glossy lashes were,
As stars within the crystal air.

Oh, call her not a phantom form,
Of deep sepulchral spells;
Her maiden lips with life are warm,