Whether with Hebe’s mirth her features shone,
Or if a shade more pleasing them o’ercast,
(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)
Yet so becomingly the expression past,
That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.
V.
Nor, guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,
And fields that were a luxury to roam,
Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!