Flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I find and I gather in country or town;
But one is still wanting,
Oh! where is it haunting?
The bud and the jewel must make up my crown.
Thou pearl of the deep sea
That flows in my heart free,
Thou rock-planted Lily, come hither, or send;
Mid flowers of the fairest,
And gems of the rarest,
I miss thee, I seek thee, my own parted friend!
Ye well arrayed——
Queen Lilies—and ye painted populace,
Who dwell in fields, and lead ambrosial lives.
Young.
The wand-like Lily, which lifted up,
As a Mœnad, its radiant-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is in its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.
Shelley.
Her glossy hair is clustered o’er a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow’s shape is like the aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting at times to a transparent glow,
As if her veins run lightning; she, in sooth,
Has a proud air, and grace by no means common,
Her stature tall,—I hate a dumpy woman.
Byron.
Oh, he is all made up of love and charms,
Whatever maid could wish or man admire;
Delight of every eye! when he appears,
A secret pleasure gladdens all that see him;
And when he talks, the proudest men will blush
To hear his virtues and his glory!