Can ne’er by tongue be told, by fancy guess’d!
Frantic she caught, she kiss’d, and lull’d him on her breast.
Oh! who can paint how Irza loved that child!
Grieved when he moan’d, and smiled whene’er he smiled!
His dimpled arm soft on the rushes lay;
Through his fine skin the blood was seen to play;
That skin than down of swans more smooth and white;
Nor e’er shone summer sky so blue and bright,
As shone the eyes of that same cherub elf;
In small the model of her beauteous self.