But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through,
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem’d the bright wakening of Poesy.
Even thus it was! From her childhood’s years
A being of sudden smiles and tears—