VI.
I know a maiden,
Her eyes are black
As the flying cloud
Of the tempest’s rack,
And the radiant glow
Of their glorious fire
Would quell and tame
A lion’s ire.
Sometimes they brighten
And lighten in gladness,
Sometimes their dark depths
Are shadowed with sadness,
But pensive or mirthful,
A soul flashes through,
That will silently charm you
And win and subdue.
Often have I heard her play
On the guitar some roundelay,
And as her white hands swept the strings,
Melody unsealed its springs,
And her sweet voice, though low and soft,
Rose like a seraph’s hymn aloft,
Rising and sinking in gentle swells;
Like a murmuring brook with its liquid bells,
Till the vanquished soul was borne along
On the rushing tide of resistless song.