Thou hast beauty bright and fair,
Manner noble, aspect free,
Eyes that are untouch'd by care;
What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione!
Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,
And a voice, itself a song!
What then can we still desire?
Hermione, Hermione!
Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears—amidst thy laughter seen,
Pity—mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione!
—Bryan Waller Proctor
Delia
Fair the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still,
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O let me steal one liquid kiss!
For oh! my soul is parch'd with love.
—Robert Burns