Had deprived of the licence to lord it on earth.
The maid was as light and as shy as the fawn,
Her eyes dark as night, and her brow like the dawn;
And her lips, twice as rich and as red as the rose,
Were more warm than the sky at a summer eve’s close;
While a music fell from them made only to bless;
And her shape—nay! her shape I must leave you to guess.
’Twould require the power pictorial of Burke,
To record how sublime was this beauty of Ferques.
The swain was in manhood’s first op’ning bloom,