And the lustre of love's on her cheek;
But all the bewildering enchantment is gone
The moment you hear her speak.
Mrs. Ellet.
30. The rose, with faint and feeble streak,
So slightly marks the maiden's cheek,
That you would say her hue is pale;
But if she face the Southern gale,
Or speaks, or sings, or quicker moves,
Or hears the praise of those she loves,