Her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky,
And joy and frolic sparkled in her eye.
Yet would she weep at sorrows not her own,
And love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne.
For her the rustics strove a homely grace,
Clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace;
Lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise,
And talk'd the simple praises of her eyes.
But fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd,
Beheld the master of the vale, and loved.