Blue eyes, but of so dark a blue
That sadder souls than mine
Find nought but night beneath their dew,--
Such locks as Prosperine
Around her shadowy forehead wears,
Made smoother by Elysian airs,
And lips whose song spontaneous swells
Like airs from Ocean's moonlit shells--
These, lovely child! are thine;
And that forlorn yet radiant grace
That best becomes thy name and race.

A forehead orbed with the light;
Pure temples marbled round
By feathery veins that streak the white,
More light thus dimly wound,
And taper fingers, hands self-folded,
Like shapes of alabaster moulded,
And cheeks whose blushes are as those
Aurora cools on Pindar snows
Ere night is yet discrowned--
Not brighter, clad in Fancy's hues,
Or seen in dream--an infant Muse.

O fetch her from yon Naxian glade
One chaplet of the Bacchic vine,
Or glimmering ivy-wreath yet sprayed
With dews that taste like wine !
She loves to pace the wild sea-shore--
Or drop her wandering fingers o'er
The bosom of some chorded shell:
Her touch will make it speak as well
As infant Hermes made
That tortoise, in its own despite
Thenceforth in Heaven a shape star-bright!