THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features -- caught From contemplation -- where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair -- Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That -- but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought -- I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born (Except that thou hast nothing to repent), The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn -- Such seem'st thou -- but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim -- nor Virtue scorn. |