A painter's fancy, beautiful, ideal.
Yet still, enraptured, in a pensive mood,
Entranced I gazed, more pleased the more I viewed,
When, unperceived, beside me stood my host,
Who like myself in wand'ring thought seemed lost.
He sighed; I turned, and on his cheek beheld
A falling tear his mem'ry's grief impelled:
But soon above it rose a cheerful smile,
And Joy seemed anxious Sorrow to beguile.
"What form! what grace!" half questioning, said I,